


Sea Glass

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: All The Tropes, Artist Dan Howell, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Sex, No Smut, Pining, Shy Dan Howell, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: Phil arrives on the Isle of Man to house-sit at his family's cabin while it's repaired and sold. Except the cabin's in far worse shape than expected, and Phil's got to find somewhere else to stay (Phil POV)





	1. Onyx

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [the most lovely moodboard](http://moossage.tumblr.com/post/171768308408/moodboard-insp-by-knlallas-sea-glass-an-au-in) created by [moossage](http://moossage.tumblr.com/)!

I have some really great memories of visiting the Isle of Man with my family as a child. Most of them do not include a sheet of icy rain battering me into the ground. 

 

I twist my lips, annoyed, and pull my jacket closer. The taxi was supposed to arrive ten minutes ago - which, in all fairness, isn’t  _ that _ long to wait. Unless you’re stood out in the rain. In single-digit temperatures. Without an umbrella.  _ Oh thank god, there it is. _

 

The car comes rolling up, and I drag myself inside as quickly as possible. The trip from the airport isn’t long, but the driver is taking his time on the slippery roads.  _ I don’t blame him _ . Normally, I’d be a bit more social, but the rain has sapped all my energy and warmth; I can barely open my mouth without my teeth chattering.

 

The landscape outside the window passes in a blur of blue and black - I’m barely paying attention, still trying to rub some heat into my hands. I’m shocked when we pull up to the cabin - or, I notice, what’s  _ left _ of it? The place is a dilapidated mess; it looks like even the roof’s caved in.

 

“S’cuse me, sir, hope y’won’t be planning on staying the night here,” the driver’s voice startles me from staring, and I open and close my mouth like a fish for a full thirty seconds before I can even think of what to say in response.  _ I was supposed to live there for...well, however long it took to sell the place, what am I going to do now? _

 

“I...uh...is there a hotel I could stay in for the night?” I know there’s a town nearby, but this side of the island isn’t as popular with tourists, as it’s mostly a fishing area.

 

“Yeah, the Main Street Inn,” the man confirms, turning the cab around and heading toward the town. It’s pretty late, so almost every shop is closed aside from what must be a twenty-four hour coffee place, and my eyes follow the warm light coming from the windows as we pass. In a few minutes, we pull up to a large, old-looking building - it reminds me of some kind of mansion, with pillars out front and an ornately-carved wooden design over the double door. I follow the pillars up to where they disappear under the roof before I realize the cab’s stopped, and the driver is looking back at me expectantly.

 

I pay, then lift my bag out into the rain and shuffle over the entrance awkwardly. Fortunately, the fancy porch provides a fair amount of protection from the weather, and I’m able to situate myself before pushing the front door open. Well, I try, but I end up pushing the wrong side, the one that’s locked. Once I’ve pushed the  _ right _ door open, I step into a warm foyer; a middle-aged man perks up at the desk under the dual staircase, and I make my way over.

 

“Hi, uh, do you have a room available for the night?” I hope there are some vacancies, though I can’t imagine who’d want to be here this time of year. 

 

“We do indeed! Just yourself?” The man asks, and I’m surprised at how chipper he seems despite the late hour. I nod, and he makes a quick note on his laptop before reaching under the desk and producing a key. “It’ll be eighty for the night, do you want to pay cash or leave a card?”

 

“Uh, let’s do a card,” I pull out my wallet, offering my card for him to swipe, and replace it when he hands it back.

 

“Great, we won’t charge til you check out tomorrow. You’ll be in room eleven, up the stairs and down the hall to the left.” He hands over the key, then, and I hoist my bag over my shoulder. The stairs barely creak under my feet as I climb, and the building as a whole looks to be very well-maintained.

 

I unlock the door to my room and push through without paying much attention, and the handle smacks into the small table behind the door. An unexpected rattling makes me jump, and the door shuts behind me.  _ Oh crap, did I break something…?  _ I inspect the table, which seems to be in good shape -  _ looks like I just shook the bowl with all the stones in it. _ I admire the colors for a moment, a mix of blue and green, then a wave of exhaustion hits - probably due to the adrenaline leaving my system.

 

I strip off my soaked clothes, rummaging around in my bag for something dry and warm to change into, then place my glasses on the bedside table before collapsing into the bed.  _ Really glad I wore those and not my contacts. _

 

\------------------------------------------

 

A soft, grayish light wakes me, and I realize I must’ve left the curtains open the night before. It’s not exceptionally early, but I pull the covers up over my head.  _ I need coffee _ .  _ And a place to stay _ . I groan, reaching out from under the duvet to grab my glasses. I’ve only got til Monday before the contractors will be out to assess the damage to the cabin -  _ which is apparently way worse than my parents thought _ \- and begin repairs, which means I have less than a week to find somewhere new to stay. And possibly a job, if I can’t find someplace cheap.

 

Fortunately, I’ve saved up a bit from work, but it won’t be enough to full-on rent a place indefinitely.  _ And I don’t know anybody I can stay with, it’s been years since anyone in the family stayed here... _ I continue my brainstorming as I take a quick shower and get dressed, then grab my bag and head down to the foyer to check out. 

 

An elderly woman has replaced the man I’d interacted with the night before, but she gives me a similarly lively smile as I approach the desk. 

 

“Hello, I need to check out?” I place the key in front of her, and she takes it, checking the tag.

 

“Ah, you came in last night, right? Room eleven?” I nod, and she replaces the key under the desk. “Robert told me, said Jim had brought you out to the old cabin - can’t imagine why you’d be out there, middle of the night,” she pauses, hazel eyes peeking out from under hooded brows.  _ Oh, she wants me to tell her _ . I almost chuckle - of course the small-town old woman needs to know all the gossip.

 

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” I start as she prints me a receipt. “That’s my family’s cabin, they’re trying to sell it, but it needs some repairs,” the woman shoots me a disbelieving look, and I laugh. “Right, they didn’t know it needed  _ that many _ repairs. I was meant to stay there while they fixed it up, but I can’t really do that now.” I pause; she’s narrowed her eyes at me, and I can’t quite figure out why.

 

“I, uh, don’t suppose you know of anywhere I could stay? Not that this place isn’t lovely!” I rush to amend when her eyes squint even more. “I just can’t afford it, that’s all. So, anywhere I could rent for cheap, maybe?” The woman doesn’t speak, but steps out from behind the desk and makes her way across the foyer to a small office.  _ Perhaps she knows a place _ . I wait for her to return. When she does, she’s holding a small sticky note with something written on it. 

 

“My grandson, he’s probably about your age,” I take the note from her, which has an address. “Daniel. He lives on my property up north, not too far from your cabin. You’re welcome to stay there until the repairs have been done,” she returns to her place behind the desk and blinks at me.

 

“Uh, do you...want me to pay rent? Or anything? I can’t just stay free of charge,” I’m fumbling for words, trying to understand why this old lady just told me to stay at her grandson’s house, and didn’t ask for a thing in return.

 

“No rent, just keep the boy company. He doesn’t come into town much, and I worry about him. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.” I stare for a few moments longer, still confused by the whole situation, until she actually  _ shoos _ me out the front door. “Food’s on you, though! You young men eat far too much to put on my tab.” She calls behind me.

 

The brisk wind is a slap to my face, and it brings me back to reality.  _ This random old lady just offered me a place to stay, I could be walking right into the house of a serial killer or something! _ I shake my head, still trying to clear it, then set off toward the coffee shop I’d seen the night before.

 

It’s only a short walk away, and warm and cozy once I’m inside. They don’t have any fancy drinks, and I have a momentary crisis -  _ how am I going to survive an indefinite amount of time without Starbucks? _ \- before ordering a regular coffee. 

 

Once it’s ready, I retreat to a table in the corner and pull out my laptop to do some research.  _ There has to be somewhere else I can stay, right? _ Though I didn’t get any kind of negative vibe from the old woman, she’d been very quick to offer up the place, and at  _ no cost _ ? The whole thing sounds far too suspicious…


	2. Charcoal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's limited options leave him only one place to stay.

Several hours and a sandwich later, I lean back in my chair with a sigh - I’ve exhausted literally every possible option for staying here. There aren’t any flats for rent, and the houses are way outside my price range. Worse than that, the town is so small that nobody’s hiring; my options have dwindled down to  _ one _ . 

 

I decide to grab a hot chocolate for the road, seeing as it’s so chilly out.  _ Guess I’ll be staying in serial killer house... _ The woman at the counter takes my order, and I realize I need to  _ get _ to the house, somehow.

 

“Excuse me,” I call to the woman, who’s busied herself making my hot chocolate, “what’s the number for the cab company?” She gives me an odd look, snapping the lid onto my cup and setting it in front of me.

 

“You mean Jim? I’ll give him a call. Where do you need to go?” I shrug, fishing in my pocket for the sticky note with the address and hand it over.

 

“Thanks,” I smile as she reads the address.

 

“That old house on the ocean? Where that weird grandson of Janice’s lives?” My eyes go wide.  _ Oh no,  _ definitely _ a serial killer... _

 

“Uh, what do you mean ‘weird’?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.  _ I bet tourists disappear up there all the time, or get abducted, or come back as zombies, or... _ My imagination takes over, and I’m almost disappointed by the bland nature of her response.

 

“Yeah, he never comes into town unless he’s got some sea glass to sell at the market, and when he does, he’s real quiet, never talks to anyone, and disappears as soon as the shops close.” I frown -  _ there’s nothing wrong with that, just sounds shy… _

 

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I comment, locking eyes with the woman.  _ You shouldn’t judge people for things like that, it sounds like she doesn’t even know him. _ She shifts a little, looking uncomfortable, then turns toward the door to the kitchen. I notice the phone on the wall -  _ wow, a landline? _ \- and she dials a number.

 

“Hey Jim...yeah, someone needs a ride...Janice’s old house, up by the beach, yeah, the one her grandkid stays at...no clue, but can you take him? Great, I’ll let him know.” She hangs up and calls over her shoulder to me. “He’ll be here in about five minutes. Can I help you with anything else?” Her tone has gone a bit formal, and I wonder if I’ve offended her.  _ I just didn’t think the guy sounded ‘weird’, that’s all... _ I shake my head, grabbing my hot chocolate and leaving the shop. Despite the chill, I’d rather stand outside than deal with the lady any longer.

 

Fortunately, the cab pulls up after just a few minutes, and I slide into the artificial warmth of the back seat. The driver - Jim, I suppose - turns around.

 

“So, what business y’got up at that old place?” He asks, and I hesitate to answer.  _ Man, these people really like their gossip. Plus I don’t want to get into any more arguments... _ I decide to keep it simple.

 

“It’s near the cabin, I may be staying there for a bit. Not sure yet,” I hope that’s enough to get him off my back, and I take out my phone to find a distraction. Jim must sense my reluctance to elaborate, because he turns back toward the road and we start driving. 

 

The drive isn’t long, and seems to be a similar route to the one we took into town the night before.  _ Which would make sense, if the old lady - was Janice her name? - said it was near the cabin. _ Though the road is the same, I couldn’t really see the ocean last night: it’s gray and full of little white sprays and small waves -  _ probably very windy _ . I watch it until the rocky shore turns into a small beach, which ends abruptly at a cliff; Jim pulls up in front of what must be the house.

 

It’s actually very classic house-on-the-cliffs.  _ Well, it  _ is _ actually on a cliff _ . The color is something between a pastel blue and gray, and it looks worn from the salty breeze. A small staircase made of the ricketiest-looking wood  _ ever _ clings to the side of the cliff from a back porch and ends in the sand below. I’m fascinated and mildly frightened by a turret suspended over the ocean itself, which seems to be barely hanging onto the house. Jim’s voice makes me blink, and I turn back to him.

 

“Uh, right, how much?” I pay quickly, then step outside and stare at the house as Jim turns the car around and drives away.  _ Well, at least the guy’s probably not a serial killer... _ I take a breath and march across the loose gravel to the front porch. It wraps around the side of the house, and I wonder if it attaches to the deck I saw in the back. I’m tempted to investigate, until I check the time. And realize that Janice had probably told her grandson that I’d show up  _ hours _ ago.  _ Way to make a great first impression _ .

 

I knock on the door, seeing no signs of a doorbell, and wait. And wait. And  _ wait _ . I’m about to knock again, though I’m kind of wondering if the guy just  _ really  _ doesn’t want to be around people - the lady at the coffee shop said he doesn’t leave much, so I doubt he’s in town - when the door swings open. 

 

My arm is still raised in the air as the guy in front of me stares, and I drop it quickly. He does look about my age, with brown, slightly curled hair that matches his brown eyes. I expect him to speak, or be annoyed, or do  _ anything _ really, but he just stands halfway in the door and looks at me. My eyes wander, feeling a bit odd about just staring back, then I decide to break the silence.

 

“Hey, my name’s Phil, nice to meet you,” I extend my hand toward him, but he’s still just watching me. “Daniel, right?” I prompt, and he blinks at me. 

 

“Dan,” he says, and I beam at him - he immediately drops his gaze, eyes fixed on his feet as he steps back from the door and opens it a bit wider. For some reason, I count that as a victory, and drop my hand as I step inside. Despite its exterior, the ground floor is exceptionally modern, featuring a sleek kitchen off to the right and a simple but contemporary lounge to the left. In front of me is an ancient-looking staircase, which Dan has already begun to climb, so I take a final glance around the space before following. 

 

The first floor looks like we stepped through a time machine back to the day the place was built, and I’m tempted to run back downstairs to see if it’ll send me back to the present.  _ This is more what I expected it to be like when we pulled up to the house _ . Wood paneling and old wallpaper line the walls, and it reminds me of the inn I stayed in last night.  _ Makes sense, if Janice owns this place as well. _

 

Dan’s off again, down the hall, and I trail behind him.

 

“So, you live here by yourself?” I ask, hoping to start a conversation.  _ And just triple check he isn’t a serial killer... _ his silence is a little unnerving, true, but I also just want to know more about him. Especially since I might be here a while.

 

“Yep,” his voice is so soft, I’m almost not sure he’s said anything, but I don’t get time to respond as we reach the end of the corridor. He gestures to a door, and I move past him to push it open. And find a small, circular space, with a window overlooking the ocean. I’m about to protest, to ask if there’s anywhere else I can say, but I turn to find Dan already gone.

 

Now, the ocean is pretty, sure, but it freaks me out. Being suspended over it, where the tower could fall off at any time and send me into the deep? I’m hesitant to even move too quickly as I cross the space. I leave my bag on the bed, glad that it’s in the middle of the room and not by the window - the window I take one step toward, then step  _ very carefully _ away from when the floorboard creaks beneath my foot.

 

“Okay, staying on this side of the room, then,” I grab my bag and retreat toward the wardrobe by the entrance. It’s empty, so I toss a few clothes in, then grab my toiletries and backtrack down the hall to find the bathroom. 

 

Conveniently, it’s only one door down, and I find some space for my stuff before grabbing my laptop and heading downstairs. The shift in atmosphere is weird to get used to, but I’m soon settled onto the couch.  _ I need to order some food to be delivered.  _ It takes me all of five seconds to realize I have no idea what the WiFi password is. I scan the open space, but Dan doesn’t seem to be down here, which I confirm with a quick check into the kitchen. I return to the 1800s in my trek upstairs and wander the corridor. The first door I encounter, one I know isn’t mine or the bathroom, ends up being a coat closet - though it’s more full of blankets than coats. 

 

The second one, however, opens to a dark room - it takes me a moment of fumbling before I find the light switch, and I flick it on to see an incredibly messy space: drawings and sketches are hung on the walls, even covering the windows; more have been littered across the floor, weighed down with colorful rocks.  _ Which look a lot like the ones in my room at the inn. _ I move farther inside, captivated by the artwork as I step carefully around the paper on the ground, and I almost run smack into a sculpture made entirely of the rocks, hung from the ceiling. 

 

“ _ Please _ be careful,” the voice carries from the door, though it’s still soft, and I spin to find Dan staring at me. I pick my way back across the floor, trying to be extra cautious, and end up standing right in front of him.

 

“Sorry about that! I didn’t touch anything, just looking,” I add, and his expression goes from sort of angry to a little embarrassed.

 

“Yeah, alright, did you need something?” He asks, stepping out of the room, and I take that as my cue to follow. I close the door gently behind me, suddenly recalling the original reason I’d ventured back upstairs.

 

“Oh! Right, the WiFi, what’s the password?” He sighs, and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong.  _ I guess I should’ve asked before just barging into random rooms... _ then he’s spun around and disappearing into a door farther down the hall.  _ His room, I guess? _ I’m about to follow, but he emerges, holding a torn corner of a piece of paper. 

 

“Here,” he shoves it into my hand and disappears back into his room with a slamming door before I can respond.

 

“Well, thank you!” I semi-shout, deciding not to let him get to me.  _ He’s just used to being alone, this is probably really weird for him. _ I descend the staircase and pull up the local grocery store on my laptop. The website is very simplistic, and the only method of contact is the phone number. They’re still open, fortunately, so I dial the number and wait as it rings. 

 

And rings. And rings. I stand, deciding to give myself a tour -  _ one that doesn’t include rooms I’m not supposed to go into _ \- as I wait for someone to pick up. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, like something out of a magazine, and it’s fully open to the lounge. The back wall is almost entirely windows, which is amazing.  _ If I ever have my own house, I want an entire wall of windows like that. _ There’s a glass door, as well, which leads out to the back porch - though, when I step outside, I realize it’s the same as the front porch: it wraps around, like I thought. 

  
Off to the side is a small gate, and I walk over to investigate: it leads to the staircase that descends down the cliffside to the beach.  _ Potential to catapult down the cliff and into the ocean below? No thanks. _ I opt not to check that out right now. My hands are starting to chill in the brisk air, though, so I make my way back to the door; on my way, I notice a small spiral staircase set into the side of the house - it looks like it’d lead right up to Dan’s room.  _ Interesting.  _ I don’t know much about this guy I’m staying with, but he certainly seems  _ interesting _ . I return to the comfortable warmth of the lounge, distracted thinking about this guy I’ll be living with, but I’m interrupted by a greeting as someone from the grocery store finally picks up.


	3. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's domestic AF.

As it turns out, they already have weekly deliveries set up for Dan, so they just tack my order onto his. “Only if,” I insist, “our orders are kept separate, so I can pay for my stuff myself.” _That was literally the_ only _thing Janice asked of me, aside from keeping her grandson company. I should probably work on that, too._

 

I hang up the phone, then, and resolve to get started on my other task. I climb the stairs fairly confidently, and manage to make it all the way to his door before I start to worry. _What if he thinks I’m annoying? Or just doesn’t like me?_ I drop my arm, which had been poised to knock, when it’s pulled open from the inside; I don’t have time to move before Dan walks right into me, our foreheads colliding with a smack.

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he curses under his breath, hand raised to his head. He fixes me with a grimace, and I back up slightly, head aching from the collision.

 

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t realize you’d be coming out, I was going to knock but I thought you maybe didn’t want to be bothered, sorry! Are you okay? I mean, obviously not, but like, can I get you some ice or something?” I can’t stop, rambling, and he just stares at me. As I speak, the anger dies in his expression, and he just looks _tired_.

 

“Whatever,” he drops his hand as he turns, and it’s almost worse than if he’d yelled at me or something. _I wonder why he’s so...well, whatever he is._ As he stalks away, I realize he’s left his door open. I wait until he turns the corner, evidently headed downstairs, before I take a peek inside.

 

His room is about the size of the art gallery I’d stumbled into earlier, and just as messy, though it’s cluttered in a different way: the floor's littered with discarded clothing, and his bed - sat against the wall - is unmade. A desk sits in the corner, covered in papers, and there’s an adjoining bathroom. The wall across from me has another door which, at first, I think opens to nothingness. _Oh, the staircase!_ I’m tempted to go in - to confirm my theory - but that feels invasive, even for me and my curiosity.

 

Instead, I close the door slowly, hoping he can’t hear it click shut, and return to my spot in the lounge. Dan seems to be preparing something in the kitchen, possibly dinner, and I sit for a minute before deciding I’m not hungry enough to warrant getting up and making something for myself just yet. _I’ll just ask to borrow some food until my delivery arrives on Thursday, then pay Dan back for whatever I’ve used._ I figure that’s reasonable enough.

 

A half hour later, the smells of garlic and herbs have me wandering into the kitchen - _okay, I’m definitely hungry now_ . Dan seems to be finishing whatever he’s making, and I lean against the counter to watch him as he pulls it out of the oven. _Not a bad view_ , I find myself admiring his profile in the moments before he catches me staring. He almost drops the pan, obviously shocked at seeing me standing there, and I make the awful mistake of reaching out to help catch it.

 

And draw my hand back with a hiss as my palm burns against the hot metal.

 

“ _Ow, ow ow ow, owowow, ahhh, that hurt_ ,” I’m flinging my hand through the air in a sad attempt to cool the burn, and Dan stares for half a second before setting the pan on the stovetop and grabbing my wrist. He pulls me over to the sink, turning it on and letting the cool water soothe my hand. I realize I’m shaking a little as he lets go.

 

“Stay,” he commands, and I take a few breaths to steady myself as he disappears upstairs. The burning sensation has regressed to a dull throb by the time he returns wielding bandages, and I let him gently dry and wrap my hand.

 

“Why?” He mumbles at my hand as he secures the trailing end.

 

“You were about to drop-” I start, but he looks up with a hard gaze for a moment before dropping my hand and turning away.

 

“No, _why_ were you staring at me?” I can’t see the expression on his face, but I suddenly feel bad. _I was technically the reason he almost dropped it to begin with - I must’ve scared the crap out of him, sneaking up like that._ My instinct is to tell him the truth - _you’re nice to look at_ \- but I’m worried that might sound a little weird, so I opt for a more ‘normal’ half-truth.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I was just coming in to ask if I could borrow some food for dinner. I didn’t think to get anything before I came out here, and the grocery store won’t be delivering my food until your next delivery - I’ll pay you back, don’t worry!” I add, but he turns and blinks at me for a few seconds. I notice his face is still a bit pink - _probably the heat of the oven_.

 

“I, uh…” he trails off, pointing at the pan that had so rudely attacked my hand. Sitting on it are _two_ chicken breasts, each topped with some kind of pesto, and I look back to him. _Did he actually make me dinner?_

 

“Oh, wow, you didn’t have to-” I start, and notice his cheeks have turned an even deeper shade of red. _Maybe not the heat of the oven, then_ . I almost smirk, tempted to tease him, but I realize that might make him even more uncomfortable. _I said I’d keep him company._ I offer him a smile, instead. “Thanks, this looks great.”

 

He ducks his head again, returning to the pan and picking up the spatula. I’m about to offer my assistance when he glances over at me - I realize I’m just staring at him, yet again, and he averts his eyes before pointing the spatula at the table next to the kitchen. I smirk to myself - _someone’s easily flustered_ \- then go to sit down.

 

“D’you want anything to drink?” He asks. _For someone who spends most of his time alone, he knows how to play host_. He doesn’t catch my eye, or even wait for a response, just goes about what he’s doing as if he hasn’t said a word.

 

“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I figure that’s a simple enough request, probably some kind of pop or Ribena or something; I’m surprised when he pulls out two wine glasses and sets them out, along with a bottle from the fridge. _Another piece of the puzzle_. I allow myself another few seconds of watching him as he pours the wine, though something about the scene is skewed. It takes me until he pours the second glass to realize he’s doing it left-handed.

 

Given how little I know about him, I decide that’s an important fact, and file it away. He brings the wine over first, eyes on the table as he sets my glass in front of me, and returns to the kitchen for the chicken. Which smells _amazing_ as he sets it down, though I wait until he’s sat across from me to cut into it and take a bite.

 

“Okay, this is fantastic,” I compliment, already lifting another piece to my mouth. He glances up at me for half a second before his eyes drop to his plate, evidently _very_ focused on his food. Despite his attempts to hide his face, I can see the blush creeping up his cheeks, and it makes me smile.

 

We eat in silence for a couple minutes, but I can’t stand it. I doubt it’ll get him to open up, given how quiet he’s been, but I request it anyway.

 

“So, tell me about yourself!” I say, taking a sip of the wine, and he raises an eyebrow at me. It takes him a moment to chew the bite he’d taken, and I look away - _bad timing, I should’ve waited til he was finished before I asked_ \- when I glance up again, he’s staring at his plate.

 

“I’d rather not,” he mumbles, sticking another piece of chicken in his mouth. I shrug, taking the final bite of my own food before responding.

 

“Okay, I’ll just talk about me, then!” I know I sound a bit over-enthusiastic, but sometimes the best way to get people out of their shells is to open up first. I talk about why I’m here, the cabin - “Which,” I note, “is actually _haunted_ ,” - and my memories of the trips my family used to take here. He’s silent through the whole thing, but I notice him glance up from time to time, and it’s encouraging. _We’ll be best friends by this time next week, I guarantee it._ The thought makes me smile, and he gives me an odd look.

 

He’s taking his final sip of wine, so I stand and reach over to grab his plate.

 

“You don’t-” he starts, moving to stand himself, but I cut him off.

 

“You _made me dinner_ , it’s the least I can do. If I don’t help at least a little, I’ll just feel like a freeloader!” I laugh, snatching the plate away from him before he can stop me. He looks almost _annoyed_ that I’m trying to help, but I ignore him and focus on cleaning up without getting my bandage wet. He places his now-empty wine glass beside me at the sink, and offers a mumbled ‘thanks’ before disappearing upstairs.

 

 _Tough egg to crack, then_ . I smile, though; most people don’t really care to listen to me ramble on about my life, especially not for - I check the time - nearly an _hour_ . Maybe he was doing it out of politeness, but that’s more than a lot of people offer me: most just dismiss me and my stories as _weird_ and try to change topics.

 

I spend the rest of the evening alone in the lounge - since it seems Dan’s content to hide in his room most of the time - watching some Netflix and browsing for some odd coding jobs I can do while I’m here. I find a few I can work on in my spare time before shutting down and heading upstairs myself; the work won’t pay a ton, but it’ll definitely help prevent me from spending my entire savings while I’m here.

 

I feel my way down the dark corridor, unable to find any lighting, and almost crash right into the door to my room. I flick the lights on as soon as I get inside and blink into the brightness for a moment. I change on the safe side of the room, as close to the door and wardrobe as I can manage, then turn the lights off. At which point I realize the curtains at the window are still open - a grayish color coats the room, but I can’t make myself walk all the way over to the window. Instead, I creep my way over to the bed. The floor doesn’t collapse under me, which I count as a win, so I lower myself gently to the bed and try to fall asleep.


	4. Navy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan is not very used to having someone around.

I’m woken by a very persistent light, and it takes me a full minute to realize I’ve shifted to the other side of the bed and am now staring directly at the window of death. I scoot slowly back to the safe side and reach for my phone to check the time.  _ Too early... _ my brain is ready to drift back off until I hear a creaking that could either be the house settling or the turret tower about to fall off into the ocean.  _ Well, guess I’m getting up early, then! _

 

I stand slowly, checking the status of the room for any cracks, but it seems to be holding together, so I make my way to the wardrobe and grab some clothes before heading down the hall to the shower. I turn the water up to full heat, expecting it to only get as far as lukewarm like it did in our cabin, but it comes out scalding and I almost burn my  _ other _ hand. Which reminds me to check the burn from last night - it’s a dull pink color, but it doesn’t hurt too much, and I take that as a good sign. 

 

Once I’ve finished my shower, I rummage through the medicine cabinet to find the bandages - just to be on the safe side - but I fail miserably at wrapping my hand myself.  _ I had to go and burn my right hand, didn’t I? _ I roll my eyes at myself, dressing carefully to avoid anything irritating my palm, then trek down to Dan’s room.  _ Hopefully he’s awake… _

 

I knock, not too loudly, then wait for a few moments. Then knock again. 

 

“Dan?” I call through the door, then listen carefully, in case he’s just being  _ extra _ quiet this morning. “Dan?” I try again before deciding to open the door  _ just a tiny bit _ , in case he can’t hear me when it’s shut. It creaks open, and I say his name into the space, but there’s still no response. I can see the bathroom from here - dark, no sign that he’s inside. I inch the door just a bit farther, until I can see the bed. Which is empty.  _ Did he go downstairs already? I didn’t hear anything… _

 

I shut the door gently, bandages still in hand, and head to the lounge. Then the kitchen. I even scan the porch outside, but no sign of him.  _ Where on earth could he- oh, wait. _ I remember the other room I’d stumbled into on accident, and trudge back up the stairs again.  _ Definitely need some coffee _ . I knock twice on the door to the art room before easing it open, and almost jump when I see Dan huddled on the floor - he’s got a piece of charcoal in his hand, like he’d actually fallen asleep  _ while drawing _ . 

 

“Dan, are you alright?” I’m a little concerned - what if he  _ fainted _ or something - but he grumbles at my voice. _ Okay, that’s a good sign. Grumpy Dan. _ I smirk before I make my way around the scattered pages to crouch beside him and shake his shoulder gently. His eyes are still closed, but his fingers bat my hand away. “Dan, you’re laying on the floor. That  _ can’t _ be comfortable,” I chuckle, though I’m trying not to be  _ too _ loud. 

 

“Ugh, what?” He groans as he lifts his head, blinking in confusion and jumping back when he notices me hovering right over him. “Ah, shit, what are you…” he trails off, eyes catching on the smudged sketch his arm had been hiding - he must’ve been working on it when he fell asleep. He slides it under his arm again, fixing me with a death glare. “Right, can you just...leave?” His voice sounds annoyed, but his face is flushed, and he looks more cute than angry, so I giggle.

 

“Sure, but would you mind helping me wrap my hand again, when you get a chance? It’s probably fine,” I say, showing him the pink mark, “but I’d rather be safe than sorry, y’know?” He glances back down at the page, still mostly hidden, before nodding at me. When I don’t move, he narrows his eyes at me, so I stand with a smile. “Just let me know when you’re able to help. Thanks!” I turn to leave the room, again stepping carefully around the papers on the floor.  _ Wonder what he was drawing, that he didn’t want me to see… _

 

I bring the bandages with me into the kitchen, setting them on the counter before searching for and making - one-handed - some coffee. I only spill a little bit, but I clean it up before Dan makes his way downstairs. I’m sipping from a mug I found, and I set another out for him when I hear the floorboards groan above me.

 

He looks stiff and uncomfortable, grimacing as he steps into the kitchen, so I simply point at the mug and let him take it to the table.  _ I’ll let him get caffeinated before I start bugging him. _ I figure that’s fair enough, and join him as he sits down. My curiosity wins out after his first few sips.

 

“So...how’d you end up sleeping on the floor of that...uh, art room?” I ask, not sure what he’d call it. As usual, his eyes have been fixed on anything other than me up til this point, and he looks a little startled that I’d ask -  _ or talk at all, for that matter _ . Again, I realize that he’s probably not used to having a person around.

 

“Fell asleep drawing,” he shrugs, taking a long drink of the coffee. Though I’m pretty sure I’ve got his next reaction pegged, I ask anyway.

 

“Drawing what?” I try to keep my tone casual, but he almost chokes on the sip he’s taking. I cover my mouth, trying to stop a laugh -  _ he’s coughing, that’s not funny, _ my brain insists, but I  _ knew _ something like that would happen. Okay, maybe not _ that _ exactly, but I knew he’d freak out, with how secretive he was being earlier. It takes him a few seconds to get his cough under control.

 

“You needed me to wrap your hand, right?” My eyebrows lift in shock -  _ changing the topic, are we? _ I watch the heat flush his cheeks, and he stands to retrieve the bandages. I decide not to comment, instead letting him apply the bandage in silence. With him focused on my hand, I allow myself a few moments of not-so-discreet staring: his hair’s curled and mussed up from sleep, and looks incredibly soft - I sort of want to touch it. He purses his lips as he tucks in the trailing end of the bandage, and I admire the small dimple that forms in his cheek.  _ My new goal: I’m gonna make him smile, like really seriously smile. _ I hate seeing anyone unhappy, and I’ve just realized I don’t think I’ve seen him smile  _ once _ , not even a little.

 

I drop my gaze to my hand as soon as he steps away from me, pretending to be  _ very intently inspecting _ the bandaging he’d done, but when I look up to thank him, he’s already climbing the stairs.

 

“Thanks!” I call after him anyway, flexing my hand a few times. Uncomfortable, but not really painful. I rummage around the kitchen a little longer, locating some cereal, and pour myself a bowl.  _ Okay, chicken, wine, coffee, cereal, milk, _ I make the mental list of things I’ll need to pay Dan back for. 

 

Once finished, I clean out the bowl and plunk down on the couch in the lounge.  _ May as well get started on those projects I took last night _ . I spend some time working, though I’m not sure how long until I get up to make some more coffee. Apparently, it’s already been a few hours, but I feel like I’ve barely gotten started. My stomach grumbles at me, so I use my foray into the kitchen as an excuse to find something to snack on. There’s not a ton to choose from -  _ to be fair, he did live alone up til now _ \- and I’m very glad my delivery will be here this afternoon. I grab some biscuits and my coffee, then settle back onto the sofa to get back into my work.

 

I’m startled from my focus by a door slamming upstairs.  _ Why would Dan be slamming a door, though? _ I stand, setting my laptop aside and stare at the staircase for a moment -  _ is he coming down, or maybe he’s mad at his artwork or something? _ I’m about to climb up and investigate, hand resting on the railing, when movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. 

 

It’s Dan, descending the spiral staircase to the porch; the windows don’t offer much of a view - aside from his black skinny jeans - until he’s already at ground level, crossing the back deck to the gate on the other side. He turns toward me, as if suddenly remembering he might not be alone, and catches my eye; I take a step forward, thinking to offer to join him wherever  he’s off to, but his expression turns panicked, and a little pleading.  _ Guess he really doesn’t want the company, then. _ Again, I’m reminded that he’s used to being alone -  _ maybe this is his way of getting away from me for a while _ .

 

I lift my hand and give him a wave, and a small smile, then turn back toward the sofa to start working again. Though I make a point of seeming very focused on my laptop, I let my eyes drift toward him just before he opens the latch.  _ Relieved, he looks relieved.  _ I sigh, twisting my lips.  _ Okay, maybe  _ two  _ weeks, then we’ll be best friends… _


	5. Indigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm's a'coming.

Dan’s gone for almost an hour and a half - I keep checking the time, and end up getting almost  _ nothing _ done - when a knock at the front door startles me. I check the time  _ again _ , then realize that this was when the grocery store said our food would be delivered. I open the door to see a woman extending a handful of bags toward me, and I grab them and set them inside.

 

“Here you go, hon, just sign here, and we’ll charge the usual account,” I nod, then backtrack.

 

“Wait, some of that is going to my card, right?” The woman takes the clipboard back from me, reading it over, before nodding.

 

“Yes, part of the order is being charged as usual, part will be charged to the card you called us with yesterday.” I nod and take the clipboard to sign, then hand it back to her.

 

“You’re both very lucky,” she comments, and I tilt my head in confusion. “With the storm, you’re the last delivery today. Any later, and we would’ve had to cancel,” she turns on a heel and starts walking back to her car, and I glance up at the sky: it’s dark, not just gloomy, and the clouds are black and terrifying. I notice the woman hold the clipboard over her head as she unlocks her car door, and fat droplets of rain start to hit the ground. The crunching sound of tires on gravel is soon drowned out by a loud rumble of thunder, and a gust of wind sweeps in through the door before I can get it closed.

 

I lock and latch the door shut, though I can hear a slight whistling as the wind slides in through the cracks. I almost trip over the bags I’ve left in the entrance -  _ they can wait _ \- as I rush to the back porch. Unless he slipped in while I was distracted by the delivery, Dan is still outside somewhere, and that storm looked  _ really  _ bad.

 

The wind is already whipping rain into my back as I traverse across the deck, and I almost turn back when a clap of thunder shakes the wood under my feet.  _ You can’t just leave him out there _ . I steady myself, reaching the gate and unlatching it. If the deck was terrifying, the stairs leading to the beach are like a descent into hell.  _ Any of them could break at any time and send me hurtling down the cliffs _ . I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, picturing Dan shivering out in the cold, waves crashing up against the sand, and grip the railing beside me. Eyes open now, I take the first step, then the second, then the third, focusing only on the next plank of wood and on finding Dan.

 

I’m halfway down when I hear a voice below me, shouting my name. I look up, squinting against the sheets of rain clouding my vision, to see Dan -  _ oh thank god, he’s alive _ \- struggling up the steps. He looks wet and confused, but otherwise unhurt, and it takes a lot of restraint not to jog down to him.  _ Don’t need to send us  _ both _ down the side of the cliff _ .

 

The wind is at my back, so he’s having a hard time fighting against it to climb the steps, and he’s only got one free hand to grip the railing - the other clutches a bag close to his chest; generally, he’s having a rough time of getting back to the house. By the time I reach him, he’s shivering, and I wrap my arm around his waist to help him climb. I swear it’s steeper on the way back up than it was coming down, but I try to focus just on the step in front of me. 

 

I jump at every flash of lightning, every rumble of thunder, but I don’t think Dan can tell with how much he’s shaking. I near have a  _ heart attack _ when his foot slips, and he almost falls, but I manage to catch him and keep him standing. By the time we get to the gate, I’m practically carrying him, and he’s huddled against me completely.

 

I get us inside, though I’ve started shivering myself now, and we both collapse onto the ground in a sopping wet heap. It’s warmer here than outside, but it’s definitely not enough to prevent us from catching a cold - I stand on shaky legs, climbing the stairs to pull some towels from the bathroom and blankets from the coat closet.

 

Dan hasn’t moved when I return, but he’s at least able to look up at me as I wrap a towel around him and begin to dry him off. He’s still clutching the bag in a death grip - he gives me a distrusting look when I try to set it aside, holding it for just a second before he lets go. I don’t look inside -  _ we can worry about secrets later _ \- just resume drying him off. The movement warms me slightly, and I wrap a blanket around his damp figure before attending to my own situation.

 

“F-fire,” Dan mumbles from the floor, and I pause mid-dry. He glances over to the fireplace, set across from the sofa in the lounge, and I drape the towel over my shoulders to get it going. It’s a gas fireplace, fortunately, so it springs to life in just a few seconds. I turn back to see Dan trying to stand, but he stumbles to the side and catches himself on the wall.

 

“Let me help,” I offer, surprised when he doesn’t protest. I hold his arm as he takes slow steps to the sofa, but he doesn’t stop - he ends up collapsing right in front of the fire, shuddering as the wave of heat hits him. 

 

Significantly less wet, now, I swap my towel for a blanket and wrap it around myself as I move to the kitchen. I’m still cold, but Dan was out there for a lot longer than I was. I find some tea in the cupboard and heat some water. Dan hasn’t moved from his spot at the fire by the time I bring him out a steaming mug, but his hands have stopped shaking enough to hold it steady when he takes it from me. I drop down to the floor beside him, cradling my own mug, and let the silence sit for a little before I speak.

 

“What were you out there for?” I ask it softly, inquisitive, and hope he doesn’t misinterpret it as prying. His eyes are unfocused, like he’s lost in the fire, and I wonder if he’s even heard me.

 

“Collecting,” his voice is softer than mine, but there’s no hint of the teeth-chattering that had been there earlier, and he takes a sip.  _ Collecting what? _ I almost ask it, but he continues on his own. “Sea glass,” he nods toward the bag, still dripping and discarded by the back door.

 

I point, raising my eyebrows, and he nods again. I stand, still damp but significantly warmer, and make my way over to the bag. It’s full of the same colorful rocks I saw in his art room, littering the floor and part of the sculpture, and from the hotel as well. I recall the rude woman at the coffee shop, how she mentioned he sometimes came into town to sell the stuff.

 

“It’s pretty,” I comment, rejoining him by the fire. He’s just staring into his mug, which is no longer steaming, so I almost fall over when he stands abruptly. “Are you okay?” I ask, worried something’s wrong. But he stalks away, only answering once he’s halfway up the stairs.

 

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbles, and I relax slightly. When I hear the shower turn on, I stand as well. _ That’s a good idea, a hot shower to warm up _ . I’m no longer frigid, and the tea is doing a pretty good job of warming me from the inside, but I could definitely do with some hot water. I stop by my room first, laying the damp blanket out to dry and grabbing some clothes, then stand in the bathroom as I wait for the water to heat up.

 

When I realize it’s the second time today I’m standing, checking the water, I look down at my right hand - which is  _ bare _ , and not bandaged.  _ It must’ve fallen off outside _ , I reason. The pink is still visible, but it doesn’t hurt, so I decide it’s not worth trying to track Dan down again to have him wrap it.  _ Besides, getting him to do  _ anything _ is like trying to herd cats… _

 

The shower turns my skin as pink as the healing mark on my hand, and I’m thoroughly warm by the time I step out. Once I’m dressed, my stomach drags me down to the kitchen, and I check the fridge and pantry before I remember the food we had delivered earlier. I grab the bags and quickly put everything away, hoping nothing’s gone bad, then reassess my options.

 

_ Pancakes, absolutely. _ I smile, grabbing the American pancake mix and searching for a pan to use. I’m halfway through making a few for myself when I realize Dan hasn’t had anything to eat all day -  _ maybe he’s an alien who actually eats sea glass to survive _ . I make him a big stack anyway.

 

Once I’ve finished my own, complete with a healthy drizzle of syrup, I bring the still-warm stack upstairs and knock at Dan’s door.

 

“Hey, I made some pancakes, do you want any?” When he doesn’t respond, I knock again. “Dan? Pancakes? Dan-cakes?” I chuckle at my own joke, but I still don’t hear anything. “Dan? Are you okay?” I reach for the handle, a little worried -  _ what if he passed out or something? What if he went out in the storm again? _ I don’t think he’d do that, not  _ really _ , but now I’m nervous.  _ Why else wouldn’t he answer? Even just to say he doesn’t want any? _

 

I inch the door open slightly, but the lights are off and I can barely see anything. 

 

“Dan?” I call softly, continuing to push. Light from the hall hits the bed and the opposite door at the same time, and I pause. Dan’s under his covers, probably asleep, and the door I was worried he’d escaped out of is still closed tight. I ease the door back shut, satisfied that he’s okay, then return to the kitchen to wrap the pancakes. It takes some searching, but I find a slip of paper and a pen and write a quick note that the pancakes are for Dan before I store them in the fridge.

 

With nothing else to do, I plop down on the sofa and pull up Netflix. Granted, I  _ could _ get some work done on those projects, but I’m tired after all the craziness of the storm - the storm that’s  _ still _ raging outside the window. I try to watch some shows for a while, but even with headphones, the rumbling of thunder and flashes of lightning startle me. 

 

I eventually give up, the wall of windows making it hard to focus on anything but the storm, and head up to bed. As I shut the door of my room behind me and the silence sets in, I realize just how  _ not _ silent it is: every gust of wind makes the whole room creak, and I can  _ swear _ I feel the tower rocking back and forth in the storm.  _ Nope, no way, I can’t stay here _ . I grab the blanket, which has dried off significantly, from the corner of the room and drag it back downstairs.

  
I lay on the sofa, my long legs forcing me to scrunch up uncomfortably, and try to get some sleep. Unfortunately, the wonderful wall of windows I had  _ loved _ when I first arrived is now freaking me out; it’s fully dark, and I don’t have anything to distract me from the flashes of lightning, and I keep worrying the thunder will shatter the windows or the wind will just knock the whole house off the cliff.  _ This is going to be a long night… _


	6. Sapphire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping arrangements.

Exhaustion from the day must pull me into sleep at least a couple times, because I don’t  _ remember _ being up all night. Just  _ most _ of it. The storm hasn’t stopped, somehow, and I drag myself from the uncomfortable sofa much earlier in the morning than I’d prefer. I’m a little surprised to see Dan come down the stairs not long after I start making some coffee -  _ though he did go to sleep pretty early _ . 

 

“Good morning!” I’m trying to sound chipper, but he gives me a once-over and pauses.  _ I must look as crap as I feel, if even  _ Dan _ is noticing _ . 

 

“Is it?” He asks, eyebrows raised, and I laugh. And it earns me a  _ tiny _ smile from him, just enough that I can see the beginnings of that cute dimple.  _ One small step for Dan, one giant leap for Dan-kind! _ I bite my lip to stop the second wave of giggles at my own pun, turning to pour him a cup of coffee as well.

 

“Maybe not,” I respond, suddenly remembering that he’d said something as I set both cups down at the table. He’s wandering around the kitchen, pulling open some of the cupboards and then the fridge, when he freezes. 

 

“Pancakes?” He looks at me, confused, and I nod.

 

“I made some last night, cause I got hungry. I made you some too, but you were asleep, so I figured if you woke up in the middle of the night and wanted a snack, you could heat those up.” He looks back at the fridge, then me, then the fridge again, then back to me.

 

“That’s a lot of pancakes,” he says, taking them out of the fridge. In retrospect, that might have been more than any one person could eat in a single sitting, alien or not. But, to be fair, I thought he was definitely starving. “Do you want some?” He asks, and I nod.

 

I watch as he microwaves them, stopping frequently to flip them and make sure they’re the perfect temperature. In minutes, he’s set two plates at the table beside our mugs - mine is, admittedly, almost drained - and he starts eating. 

 

“Do you want any syrup or butter or anything?” I ask, standing and downing the last sip of coffee before going to pour myself some more - and grab the syrup. He doesn’t respond, so I look back to see him shaking his head, mouth full of pancake.

 

“Suit yourself, more for me,” I smile, returning to pour the sweet mapley nectar over my plate. I’m feeling a little less crap by the time I have a pancake sitting in my stomach, though the coffee is still fighting my drooping eyes. Until an extremely loud clap of thunder actually  _ shakes _ the entire house.

 

“ _ How _ do you sleep with that?” I ask, not angry, but certainly confused. I’m definitely awake now, fueled by adrenaline as much as caffeine.

 

“Oh! Your room probably gets a lot of the storm, doesn’t it?” He asks, hand on his forehead. “Sorry, you can, uh, sleep in my room tonight, if you want?” It’s not a question, but it sounds like one, the way he says it. I’m surprised -  _ I think he’s said more words to me just now than in the past two days combined! _ But his offer is too nice.

 

“No! No, I couldn’t take your room! It’s fine, I’ll crash on the sofa whenever it’s stormy.” I don’t mention the fact that I could barely sleep last night, but apparently I don’t have to: another clap of thunder -  _ seriously, it must be right over our heads _ \- makes me jump, and my fork clatters to the plate. I get a raised eyebrow from Dan.

 

“Is that where you slept last night?” He turns to the sofa, where my blanket is still draped haphazardly. “Yeah, I can see that turned out well. My room is pretty well-insulated, so you can take my bed and I’ll crash on the floor.” He stands, evidently finished eating, and leaves me no room for argument. _ Fine, I’ll just argue later. If he insists, I’ll at least take the floor. _

 

Dan cleans off his plate and grabs his discarded bag of sea glass from last night before retreating to his room -  _ probably the art room, actually _ \- and I’m left alone downstairs. I sigh, then finish my food and clean up my own things. With the storm outside, I have no intention of going anywhere, so I get myself set up for a few hours of work to pass the time. When Dan comes back downstairs, I glance up to watch him. He only looks at me for a moment, dropping his gaze to the floor as he goes to the kitchen. 

 

I have a really good feeling about him, though I can’t place what  _ exactly  _ it is; I continue to stare, hoping to get some clue, as he pulls things from the pantry, but I still can’t figure it out. When he turns, I look back to my screen, typing a few lines of nonsense to avoid suspicion.

 

The storm seems to wane a little as the day goes on, and I’m on a roll with one of my projects, so I just keep at it until it’s finished. I only take a break to grab some cereal - my own, this time - before diving back in. I set my laptop aside, satisfied, and decide to do a final check tomorrow before submitting it. At that exact moment, a flash of lightning makes me jump, and I glance around the room as the lights flicker. 

 

I hold my breath, as if that’ll somehow keep the electricity on, but another rapid bolt of lightning crushes my dreams, and I’m surrounded by darkness.

 

I wait for a few minutes, hoping the lights will switch back on; when they don’t, I pull out the flashlight on my phone and navigate my way to the staircase. 

 

“Dan? You okay?” I ask, and am rewarded with a soft thud and a ‘fine’. “Okay, do you have candles or anything?” I stand, pointing the light up toward the top of the staircase. After a few creaks, Dan comes into view with his own version of a torch: a small candle. 

 

“Yeah, there are a few in my room. Do you want to just come up now, since you’ll be sleeping there anyway?” His voice has gone quiet toward the end of the question. I can’t think of a good reason why he should have his room to himself, so I climb up the stairs and follow him down the corridor.

 

His room is already lit with a few candles, and it makes the place feel cozy. I frown when I notice the lump of pillows and blankets on the floor by the door, which Dan sits down on after setting the candle on the desk. I’m about to argue, but he scoots over slightly, so I join him on the floor. For both of us to be on the blankets, we have to be pretty close. I kind of want to lean in a little closer. 

 

“See,” Dan says, facing the window - it’s dark, and the curtains block out the majority of a lightning flash. I can barely hear the thunder that follows, despite the silence in the room. “Best room to be in, when it’s storming.” He concludes, and I turn toward him.

 

He looks mesmerized by the bits of the sky that can be seen at the edges of the window, and the flickering of the candles makes  _ him _ look like a storm - not the scary kind, the wild and fascinating kind. I bump his shoulder, just a little, and his eyes meet mine.

 

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, you know,” I smirk, and he looks like I just challenged him to a duel.

 

“Well  _ I’m _ not letting  _ you _ sleep on the floor, and it’s  _ my _ house, so  _ my _ rules,” he sounds like a child, and I want to laugh, but I’m  _ trying _ to have a serious argument. “Plus! You’re the guest, so you get the bed.”

 

“Well  _ I’m _ the guest, and as a good host, you have to do what I say,” I stick my tongue out, and he crosses his arms. His pout is more than adorable, and I have to smile at him. Then  _ he’s _ smiling, and I start to laugh, and he sputters out a laugh as well. It takes us both a few moments to get back under control, but Dan speaks first.

 

“We sound like kids arguing over a toy,” he’s smiling, though, and I don’t want to respond.  _ I just want to stare a little longer _ . Apparently, ‘a little longer’ is too long, because Dan’s smile fades and he drops his eyes.

 

“I, uh, you’re right I guess, I’ll take the bed.” He looks sad, or mad, or maybe a combination -  _ smad, he’s smad _ \- and my own smile twists into a frown.  _ I’ve ruined the moment, now  _ I’m _ smad, too. _

 

He stands and disappears into the bathroom, grabbing a candle on the way, and I stare after him as the door shuts. Then I just listen for a while, trying to identify when I hear thunder -  _ he was right, it’s tough to hear anything outside the room _ . I stand, grabbing my phone - I should probably get ready for bed in my own bathroom. 

 

When I return, having brushed my teeth while awkwardly holding my phone in my other hand, Dan’s already in the bed, duvet up to his chin. His eyes are closed -  _ did he fall asleep that quickly, really? _ \- so I shut the door quietly to avoid waking him. All the candles are already out; I settle onto the floor, feeling like a dog snuggling into a dog bed, and it only takes me a few minutes of adjusting and shifting around to find a semi-comfortable position.


	7. Azure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, y'all, it's THAT trope. I apologize for nothing.

Unfortunately, my shifting and adjusting has caught Dan’s  _ very much not asleep _ attention. 

 

“This is stupid,” I open my eyes when he speaks, turning toward him. He’s sat up in the bed, arms crossed again, and staring down at me. Or, at least, I assume he is - all I can really make out is that there’s a shape on the bed which is  _ probably _ Dan and not a demon, and it’s  _ probably _ just staring at me and not getting ready to devour me whole.

 

“What’s stupid?” I say, head still pressed into one of the many pillows.

 

“You’re not comfortable, and I can’t sleep because I’m being a bad host.” He doesn’t offer any solutions, though, but it feels like there’s something hanging in the air.  _ I’d offer it myself, if I thought he’d be okay with it. _

 

“Okay, and what do you propose we do about it? I’m still not letting you sleep on the floor.” I want  _ him _ to say it, so I know it’s not just me. He’s silent for a few moments, and I wonder if he’ll just give up instead, but he finally talks. Or, more like  _ mumbles _ . The room is quiet, but I can still barely hear him.

 

“ _ Just come sleep in the bed _ ,” it’s under his breath, but I know what he said.  _ This could get into dangerous territory… _

 

“I told you I won’t let you sleep on the floor,” it’s silly, I know, but I just want to be  _ sure _ he’s okay with it.

 

“Yeah, I’ll stay here and you just come sleep on the other side,” he says, a little louder this time, and I’m surprised -  _ I kinda expected him to just give up _ . He still sounds like a grumbling kid, but he didn’t take it back, so I stand and take a few careful steps until I’m standing at the edge of the bed. He slides over, and I climb under the covers beside him. 

 

We aren’t close, but I can feel the warmth from where he was laying before, and my heart pounds in my chest. I lay perfectly still, and he shifts just a little beside me.

 

“Is this...okay?” his voice is soft beside me, and I turn to see the slightest reflection of light from his eyes hiding under his hair.

 

“Yeah,”  _ except that I’m now more wired than if I drank three cups of coffee, and I kinda want to touch your hair, and I  _ definitely  _ want to kiss you, and I don’t know if I’m going to sleep  _ at all  _ with you right next to me _ . I decide not to say that last part.

 

“Okay, uhm, good night, I guess,” he turns away from me, and I try to take a deep, slow breath.

 

“Good night,” I think my voice is pretty even, and I sound normal, but it’s hard to tell when my heart is making my eardrums explode. I try to focus on his breathing, which starts off sounding almost as erratic as mine, but eventually falls into a steady rhythm.  _ He must be asleep, now. _ I breathe a little easier, now I know he’s sleeping, but I still don’t want to move.  _ I  _ definitely  _ don’t want to wake him up now. _

 

I’m actually about to fall asleep myself when Dan shifts beside me. I inhale slowly, exhale slowly, and wait - he doesn’t move for a few moments, and I relax, until he fully rolls over and onto the pillow beside me. I hold my breath, but his face is two inches from mine -  _ I  _ knew _ this was dangerous territory! I have no clue how he feels about me, and he’s going and putting his lips that close to mine!  _ I’m tempted to just push him away, but that would  _ definitely _ wake him up. 

 

He mumbles something in his sleep -  _ still sleeping, eyes are closed _ \- and I want to chuckle, it sounds a little like “coconut ear”.  _ Is he dreaming of coconuts with ears? _ The mental image sends me into a fit of giggles, and I reach up to cover my mouth, trying to keep quiet and quit shaking the bed. 

 

My movement,  _ of course _ , wakes Dan - or, maybe half-wakes him. His eyes don’t open, but he’s moving closer, and I bite my lip when his hand finds my chest. And  _ doesn’t stop _ .  _ What on earth are you doing, Dan? _ I want to wake him, fully, and at the same time I  _ definitely _ don’t. Before I can make any kind of decision, his head is resting on my shoulder, and his arm is draped across my torso. I don’t think too much about it, wrapping my own arm around him and pulling him closer. 

 

I close my eyes -  _ I’m just gonna enjoy this, just for a minute _ . Then a minute turns into two, and three, and I drift off with my arm around him and pretend it won’t be weird in the morning.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Funny enough, it isn’t. Or, it  _ might  _ not be, but it  _ could  _ be - I have no idea, because Dan’s gone by the time I wake up. The curtain covering the door outside has been opened, and I notice a square of paper stuck to the glass. I stand to pull it off, reading the messy handwriting.

 

_ Back later _

 

I try not to be  _ too  _ worried, especially because the sky looks moderately clear and I see no signs of the storm, but it doesn’t stop me from checking the wall of windows for any Dan-like objects the whole morning. My laptop is sat in front of me, so I do my best to stare at the screen and get some work done - though I’ve changed my base of operations to the kitchen table, which offers me a much better view of the gate that leads down to the beach.

 

I also try not to think too hard about the night before, but that doesn’t go as well. Which is saying something, because the whole ‘trying not to worry’ thing is going pretty terribly. If he woke up in my arms like that, maybe he has no intention of coming back.  _ He’s taken his alien spaceship back to his home planet to get away from me, the random guy who moved into his house and kinda likes him _ . 

 

When I give up trying to focus on my next project, I pull up some Netflix just to have something to distract me. I also decide to whip up some cereal, munching as I let the plot of the show drag me in - and it works pretty well.

 

So well, in fact, that I jump when the door to the back porch opens, and Dan walks inside. He stares at me for a moment, and I just stare back - I’m afraid to break the silence, like we’re sitting on the edge of a cliff and we won’t know which way we’re going to fall until it’s too late.

 

“Hi,” I’m surprised Dan speaks first, given how little he usually talks, so I don’t actually respond right away. I take a mental picture of the calm before the storm: Dan, hair blown into a mess by the wind, in a simple black jumper and skinny jeans, cheeks flushed from the cold air and hand wrapped around the bag that, I can only assume, holds more sea glass.

 

“Hi,” I respond, finally, and I can see him exhale from here.  _ Why was  _ he _ holding his breath? _ I certainly know why I was, but everything seems very  _ normal _ as he crosses the space and sets his bag on the table.  _ What’s worse _ , I wonder,  _ bringing up last night, or pretending it never happened? _

 

“I, uh, I’m going into town today, if you want to come,”  _ well, I guess we’re pretending it never happened, then _ . He walks into the kitchen and starts heating up some coffee, and I realize he’s still waiting for a response.

 

“Sure, yeah! I’d love to go,” I wonder if I’m being  _ too _ enthusiastic, if that’s making things awkward.  _ Or maybe things just  _ are _ awkward, and it doesn’t matter how much we pretend they aren’t… _

 

“I’ll let you know when I’m leaving,” he says, grabbing his bag off the table and climbing upstairs, mug in hand. I can’t tell if he sounds annoyed, or just disinterested, or  _ what _ , but the half of me that  _ isn’t _ hoping for an excuse to sleep in the same bed as him is very much hoping that there’s never another storm, just so I can avoid any more awkward encounters like that.


	8. Cobalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting trip into town.

We end up in town less than an hour later, and Dan’s toting three different bags - I already offered at least seventy-two times, but he won’t let me help carry anything. 

 

“It’s fine, it’s all really light,” he explains, two steps in front of me as we walk down the crowded street. Apparently, Saturdays are market days - Dan’s currently leading me to where he usually sets up shop, but I keep almost losing him when the other little pop-up tents and stalls catch my eye. 

 

A pretty big portion of the stores are just selling food - canned preserves, street food, pastries, and even some fresh fish - but a few sell artwork, sculptures, and clothing. The colors are a shock after all the gray and black and darkness of the last few days, and I can’t pick a single spot for my eyes to settle. 

 

Until I notice Dan, halfway down the street from me - he’s pulling out a blanket and laying it on the side of the pavement, bags discarded to the side, so I weave my way through the crowd towards him.

 

He’s already spread out some of the sea glass on the blanket - it’s mostly pale greens and blues, but a few more vibrant colors have been set off to one side - along with some small plastic bags. I tap his shoulder, planning to offer to help, but it makes him jump and almost drop the portfolio bag he’s holding.

 

“Sorry!” I take a step back, worried he’ll be annoyed, but his startled expression softens into something...almost  _ happy _ ? I give him a small smile, and the corner of his lip lifts  _ just a bit _ . “I was just going to see if you needed any help setting up,” he responds with a soft ‘oh’, then digs through his portfolio.

 

“Actually, if you could lay these out, just weigh them down with those?” He hands me a few of his drawings and points to the larger pile of sea glass, and I nod. As I set them on the blanket, I stare at each one in turn: they’re all rough sketches of the ocean. Some look peaceful, but others remind me of the storm the day before.  _ Maybe that’s what he was doing, when he was upstairs all that time. _

 

Either way, they’re amazing - Dan’s somehow managed to make looking at the drawings  _ feel _ like you’re standing in the middle of the storm, or your hair’s getting ruffled by a light breeze on a mostly calm day. I’d barely gotten to see any of his work during my two short trips into the art room, and I decide right now that I’ll have to figure out how to take another peek. 

 

“These are really impressive,” I compliment, and he looks up from writing on a few notecards. Then looks at the sketches. Then drops his eyes back to the notecards. 

 

“Yeah, they’re alright, I guess. People buy them, so…” he trails off, focusing on writing what I now see are prices. Before I can make another offer to help, he’s placing them by their respective items, and he plops back down to the blanket in silence. I join him, though I feel like I have to keep a little extra space between us.  _ I did not think this through, it’s probably going to get awkward… _

 

“So…” I start, trying to come up with something safe to ask about. “You like the ocean?” I raise my eyebrows, though I’m afraid he’ll think the question’s kind of silly.

 

“Uh, yeah, I mean, it’s great practice. Always changing,” he sounds like he might want to say something else, so I stay quiet. And wait. After a very long minute, he  _ does _ actually speak again. “There’s something intriguing about the idea that nothing in the ocean or the sky is ever the same, that there’s constant change. That the only constant  _ is _ change.” The way he phrases it, I wonder if that’s something he’s wanted to say to someone,  _ anyone _ , for a long time.

 

I dare a glance in his direction, but he’s staring across the street.  _ No, at the sky above the buildings. _ He looks so calm, and he’s finally talking about himself - well, sort of - so I just hum in response, hoping he’ll continue. He pulls his knees up to his chest, still watching the sky.

 

“But it’s a comfort, too. Even when things are in constant flux, they’re still the same. The ocean is still the ocean, regardless of how it looks today. Despite the change, it’s beautiful. It’s something worth looking at. It’s something that deserves to exist and be admired.” 

 

I’m fascinated by the way he talks, and he looks like he did during the storm last night. I don’t want him to stop, and I don’t want to stop watching him, but a woman approaches and begins sifting through the sea glass, and the bubble of calm pops. He’s focused on the possible buyer, though he doesn’t say anything, and I lean back with a sigh.  _ His voice, and his words, I could listen to him talk for forever. _

 

But I don’t get to, because the woman is putting a few of the rocks into one of the bags, then she passes Dan some money and walks away. The entire transaction is completely silent, which I find a little odd -  _ though coffee-shop-lady  _ did  _ say that he never really talks to anyone _ . Dan reaches back into his bag and pulls out a sketchbook and pencil, flipping to an open page. 

 

“You should go check out the other stalls,” he suggests, concentrating on the soft lines he’s started drawing on the paper. A part of me wants to stay, in case he decides to talk some more, but some of the stuff  _ was  _ really cool. I hesitate, and he looks up at me. “Go on, I’ll be here.” _ Guess that’s my cue to go exploring, then! _

 

\--------------------------------

 

I spend almost an hour wandering the market - they’ve blocked off an entire street just for the shops. I’m mostly drawn to the artwork, curious how it compares to Dan’s: everything’s just posters or fancy landscapes. If I had to pick, I’d buy Dan’s stuff ten times over. 

 

Satisfied with my adventure, I make my way back toward Dan’s blanket, but stop at a little sandwich stall on the way when my stomach reminds me it’s probably about lunch time. I buy two - one for Dan - and drop down beside him on the blanket. He doesn’t look up immediately, so I lean over and nudge his shoulder.

 

“Got you this,” I smile, sticking the sandwich in his field of vision. He pulls his eyes away from the page and blinks at the food a few times before setting down his pencil and taking it. He flips his sketchbook over onto the blanket next to him before I can get a look at what he’s been working on, and I try not to be disappointed.

 

“Thanks,” he says, unwrapping it and taking a bite. He’s now hyperfocused on the sandwich, so I open my own and dig in. He must’ve been hungry, because he’s finished before I am, and he sets his sketchbook back on his lap. I take a very casual bite, then lean over  _ just a little _ to catch a glimpse of the page. 

 

It’s not one big drawing, like I expected, but several small ones - I recognize the top of a building across the street, one with some intricate carvings, and a few vague sketches of the landscape. But the most interesting bits are the people. Several faces stare out of the page - none I know, but they must be people around here.  _ Those are way too good for him to have done in less than an hour! _

 

I watch him sketch as I chew - he’s apparently working on an older woman shopping in the stall next to our setup - before he abandons the drawing for a new one. 

 

“Is this what you do all day, when you’re here?” I ask, pointing at his sketches. He looks up at the sound of my voice, which is kind of muffled behind my bite of sandwich.

 

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “I mean not  _ all _ day, just until everything’s sold,” he points his pencil at the blanket, which I’m just now realizing is actually very empty: the art’s already gone, and only a couple handfuls of the pale sea glass remain. I nod, sticking the last bits of my sandwich into my mouth.

 

“Does everything always sell so quickly?” I ask, once I’ve swallowed properly. As I do, two kids rush up to the edge of the blanket, staring at the remaining sea glass. They looked super excited until they saw it, now they just look disappointed. In some Shining-level creepy-twin synchronization, they both turn to Dan.

 

“ _ Da-an! _ ” I tilt my head in confusion: they’re both  _ whining _ at Dan, like they know him. I turn toward him to find he’s digging into one of his many bags. A few moments later, he produces a few pieces of bright red sea glass. The two kids clap excitedly, and Dan deposits the rocks into a bag. He hands it over, still entirely silent, and the kids toss him a few coins -  _ that’s far less than he was asking _ . 

 

My mouth has actually dropped open, watching the whole event, so I close it as I turn back to Dan. Who’s  _ smiling _ . My eyebrows shoot up, and he finally seems to remember that someone else is there.

 

“What?” His tone is defensive, and his cheeks are flushed a bit more than they were just from the cold; his smile’s morphed into a frown, so I shake my head. 

 

“Nothing, I just...why didn’t you put the red stuff out with the rest?” I figure that’s a safe enough question, and I  _ am _ really curious about the answer. It just isn’t my  _ real _ question.  _ Why do those kids make you smile?  _ But it doesn’t matter, he ducks his head anyway.

 

“They always ask about the red sea glass. It’s pretty hard to find, so I save them some whenever I’m down here selling it.” He starts to pack up the remaining handfuls of blue and green sea glass.  _ Uh, didn’t he say _ \-  _ oh, he wasn’t really waiting to sell everything, he was just waiting for the kids! That’s...adorable. _

 

The entire way back, Dan’s words and actions run through my head. ‘Interesting’ doesn’t feel like a big enough word to describe him.


	9. Cerulean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky Phil may be winning Dan over a little?

We don’t talk on the way back, and I get the idea Dan’s had his fill of social-ness for the day - especially when he practically runs up the stairs the moment we get inside. I stand in the entrance for a few minutes, until I’m sure I heard his door close, then tiptoe up the steps after him.  _ I hope he’s in his room. _

 

I peek around the corner and down the hall. And pull back when I see the door to the art room open and Dan step out. He shuts it behind him, and I hold my breath.  _ Please please please be going into your room... _ I only let the breath out once I hear his door close farther down the hall, then check around the corner just to be safe. 

 

_ No Dan. Good. _ I take sneak over to the art room, then turn the handle slowly. The door creaks a little as it opens, and I pause to watch Dan’s door.  _ Nothing. Good _ . I slip inside, carefully shutting it behind me, then flick the light on.

 

The room is just as messy as before, covered top to bottom in papers and sea glass. I take my time looking at each sketch, thankful that my height almost matches Dan’s so I can see the ones he’s posted high up on the wall. Everything by the door seems to be mostly landscapes, and all the same view. As I move around the room, they change to slightly different angles, and it takes me a few minutes to realize they must be sketches of the views from different places in and around the house. 

 

As I get closer to the window, the ocean becomes the focus of the drawings - some are the calm days, some are the stormy ones, some are in between, like the storm is about to break. They feel more... _ alive _ than the others. It’s clear they’re all the view from the window, or maybe from the porch below.

 

As I turn my attention to the art I’ve been carefully stepping around on the floor, I notice a different view - it’s still the ocean, but it’s framed by rocks, and it doesn’t look  _ quite _ the same as all the others. These drawings take up a good half of the floor, and I wonder where he saw those from.  _ Maybe that’s just in his head, or drawn from memory? _ I notice none of them show the ocean during a storm;  _ I wonder why? _

 

The second half of the floor is covered in people - well, not in the creepy way. Drawings. Some are the quick doodles -  _ okay, they’re quick, but definitely better than doodles _ \- that I’d watched him draw at the market. Others are full profiles, taking up entire pages, or even full people. As I make my way toward the back, the pictures all show the same person.  _ Is that...me? Has he been drawing me? _ The sketches are realistic, like candid photos, and I wonder if he drew them from memory.  _ He had to, right? I’ve barely been with him for more than an hour at a time, and I think I’d have noticed him with a sketchbook. _

 

I’m smiling as I stare at them all -  _ wow, he must really like to draw me _ \- and it hits me like a freight train: what if he  _ likes _ me? Like, the same way I like him? I pick up one of the sketches that catches my eye - it’s me, of course, almost photorealistic: I’m smiling, and my tongue pokes out between my teeth. I look  _ really _ happy, like I’m laughing, and I wonder when I looked like that, that he committed it to memory so well.

 

I’m startled by the door opening behind me, and I spin to see  _ Dan _ standing there; he’s frozen in the doorway, mouth dropped open, and I quickly hide the page in my hand behind my back.  _ Way to not be suspicious!  _

 

“Uhh...hey Dan!” I  _ know _ I don’t sound casual at all, but he’s not moving, and I have to say  _ something _ to break the silence.

 

“ _ What are you doing? _ ” His voice is low, and he looks mad.  _ Not how I saw this going at all... _ He stomps over to me, easily avoiding all the artwork on the floor, and stops right in front of me. And crosses his arms.  _ I feel like I’m about to get chewed out by my mum for skipping class or something. _ The thought makes me want to laugh, because  _ objectively _ this probably looks pretty funny, and I have to bite my lip to stop a smile. 

 

It doesn’t really work, and the hand not currently hiding the sketch behind my back comes up to my mouth to block out the giggles. 

 

“What is so funny? And  _ why _ are you in here? And  _ what _ are you hiding behind your back?” He stares at me impatiently, eyebrows scrunched, but I can see a small blush.  _ He must be worried I was looking at his drawings of me. Which, I mean, I guess I was... _

 

“They’re really good!” I say by way of explanation. “All your art today was so good, and I just wanted to see the rest, and it’s  _ all _ really good,” I hesitate, hoping he won’t be too mad. “Especially the ones of me.” I hand him the one I was looking at, and somehow his cheeks go even redder. 

 

“Can you just...leave?” His voice is quiet, staring at the sketch, and I go immediately serious. 

 

“Sure. I’m sorry,” I add, a little sad now, and make my way to the door. “Thank you,” I blurt out at the last second, before I leave, and turn toward him. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, but he’s definitely confused; I point at the page in his hand. “I don’t think anyone’s ever drawn me like that. Or drawn me  _ ever _ . I really like it.” I offer him a smile as I close the door behind me; it grows into a wide grin once it’s shut -  _ it was small, but he smiled back _ . 

 

\--------------------------------------

 

I stay downstairs for the rest of the afternoon and evening, thinking to give Dan some space, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I hear the telltale creak of the steps;  _ maybe he’s not as mad as I thought! _ I try not to let my hopes get too high, though, just in case.

 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and eyes on the floor, before wandering into the kitchen.

 

“Hey!” I offer back.  _ Okay, so he doesn’t hate me, and he talked first so probably not  _ really  _ mad. _ I set my laptop aside and join him under the pretense of getting myself some food. Though patience is definitely  _ not _ my strong suit, I rummage around the kitchen in silence and wait to see if he’ll say something first; somehow, that seems to be the best way to get him talking.

 

It takes a few minutes, and I almost give up, but I finally hear his voice. Which is still super quiet, and he doesn’t look up from the food he’s preparing, but it’s absolutely a win.

 

“I, uh, I’m going down to the beach to collect more sea glass tomorrow.” He pauses, like he’s trying to decide what to say next. “Do you maybe...want to come with?” My eyebrows lift impossibly high, and I stare at him for a moment.  _ Did he just ask me to hang out with him again? I mean, first the market today, and now this? Maybe he  _ does _ like me, after all. _ “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to,” he says, and I realize I’ve been quiet for probably a little too long.

 

“Oh! No, that sounds like fun, actually. I’m just surprised you asked, I thought you liked to do that alone,” which is true. Mostly. He still hasn’t looked up, concentrating  _ very _ hard on the vegetables he’s chopping.

 

“Yeah, usually, I guess,” he mumbles to the cutting board. He’s turned away, but I can see the smile he’s trying to hide.


	10. Turquoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like stupid cutesy shit.

Dan told me to be up early, ready to go, since a storm’s coming later today. I’m trying not to get my hopes up about what that might mean for our sleeping arrangements tonight.

 

Instead, I’m focusing on getting as much caffeine into my bloodstream as I can. Dan said to be ready to leave by eight, but it’s already fifteen after and he’s nowhere in sight. I’m just getting ready to drag my butt upstairs to find him when rushed footsteps make me pause. Dan’s flying down the stairs at top speed, bag in hand, and a little out of breath.

 

“I’m so sorry, I overslept!” He rushes to say, but his panicked expression is kind of cute, and I’m not even really mad. Or annoyed. 

 

“Don’t apologize, it’s no big deal. Besides, gave me extra time to drink some coffee!” I lift the mug, mostly empty, before rinsing it out and setting it in the sink. “Ready?” He nods, and I gesture for him to lead the way.

 

The stairs down the cliff are much less terrifying when it’s not storming, and I even glance up a few times to see the view of the ocean. Hovering above the blue-gray water is a dark line of clouds, and I can see why Dan was concerned.  _ I hope he knows when we need to turn back so we don’t get caught in that _ . 

 

The air is brisk, but not freezing, and a gentle but continuous wind is blowing from the sea.  _ Salty _ , I note, but I’m wondering what Dan thinks of it, how he’d describe the smell, or the view I’m looking at.  _ It’d probably sound a lot nicer. _ If it were anyone else, I might ask, but I’m figuring out that Dan’s in a whole other category, like nobody I’ve ever met.

 

We reach the sand without any injuries, and I’m glad to find the sand is wet and mostly solid.  _ Don’t really feel like getting sand everywhere _ . Dan’s still quiet ahead of me, but he slows a little and I catch up to him. I’m not big on silence, but I’m trying pretty hard to keep my mouth shut so I can hear Dan’s voice again.

 

“You’re quiet,” he notes, and it makes me laugh. I glance over, but he’s focused on the sand below him, as usual.

 

“Oh,  _ I’m  _ quiet, am I?” I hope he doesn’t mind a little teasing - with him, it seems like it’s pretty hit-or-miss - but I notice his dimple as we continue walking.

 

“Yeah, I know, I’m the weird guy who never talks,” he’s trying to make a joke, but there’s some bitterness in his words, and it’s heartbreaking.

 

“Well, normalness leads to sadness,” I say matter-of-factly. I’m staring ahead of us, trying to stay casual, but I glance in his direction to see his reaction. Eyes still on the ground, but there’s definitely a real smile on his face. We continue in silence for a while, and I practice my tried-and-true method of waiting for him to feel comfortable speaking.

 

“You’re usually much more talkative, though,” he comments, kicking at the sand a bit as we walk. Then he mumbles something, but it gets lost when a gust of wind blows into my ears.

 

“Hmm?” I prompt him, looking over. His cheeks are pink, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the chill.

 

“I said I like to listen to you talk,” he says, and I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, just staring at him.

 

“Well _ I _ like to listen to  _ you _ talk, so we’ll have to figure out some kind of compromise here,” he looks up and actually meets my eyes, and I just want to get lost in them for a while. At that exact moment, when he’s not focused on his feet, his shoe catches on a half-buried piece of wood, and he almost falls on his face.

 

Except he doesn’t, because I somehow manage to grab him and keep him upright. We end up in a sort of awkward hug, with his chin resting on my shoulder, and I decide I  _ really _ don’t want to move. Dan pulls away first, hand going to the back of his neck as he stares at the ground.

 

“I, uh, sorry about that, I should’ve been watching where I was going,” he steps around me, walking faster now, so I turn to catch up. And decide to be a little brave.

 

“It’s alright, really,” I say as I match his pace beside him. “But maybe you should hold on, just to be sure it doesn’t happen again,” my heart is racing as I grab his free hand in my own, terrified he might pull away or get mad or tell me to just go back to the house, but he doesn’t. Though I do notice him stumble for just a moment. 

 

“Alright,” his voice is quiet, and I think for a second that maybe I’ve just made him really uncomfortable, until I see the dimple in his cheek. I don’t push it though, and we walk in silence for a long time. In fact, we’re almost at the end of the beach when Dan slows down. He drops my hand, reaching down to the sand, and picks up a smooth blueish rock that I hadn’t even noticed.

 

“Just look for stuff like this,” he says, holding it up. “Or anything similar, the color doesn’t matter.” I nod, a little disappointed we’re not holding hands anymore, and begin to wander the general area.  _ Anything smooth and rock-ish and colorful... _ I let out a triumphant ‘ooh!’ when I find one, a grassy green, and rush over to Dan to add it to his bag. 

 

“You’re distressing me by being very disorganized,” he notes, watching me as I run over to him. I’m about to ask what he means, but he goes on of his own accord. “How do you even know if you’ve looked somewhere before or not?” I hand over the sea glass, then turn toward the area I’d been searching. 

 

“Uhh….” I don’t have a good answer, so I turn back - to find him smiling, just a little. 

 

“Why don’t you start over there, by the edge of the beach, and I’ll keep going up here. We can meet in the middle.” He gestures accordingly and begins scanning the sand again.  _ Dominant, now, is he? _ I chuckle to myself as I make my way to the far end of the beach, as close to the rocks as I can get. 

 

I dive head-first into my task, squinting at the rocks and sand for any sign of color, so it takes me a few seconds to recognize that the icy drops of water hitting the back of my neck are  _ rain _ . I glance up at the sky, which is fully dark now and beginning to pour, then at Dan. He’s stood across the beach, but closer than before, and he looks really concerned. We both stay still for a few seconds, until a flash of lightning crackles over our heads, then he’s waving me over and running toward the end of the beach.


	11. Aquamarine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh no they're trapped out in the rain oh boy this is so horrible~~

“In here!” Even though he’s shouting, I can barely hear him over the rain and wind. And the clap of thunder that makes me jump. He’s pointing into a cave set in the side of the cliff, right at the end of the beach, and I follow him inside.

 

Another bolt of lightning brightens the cave for a split second, and I’m able to locate Dan a few paces away from me. He’s shivering and dripping wet - we  _ both _ are - and I walk carefully over to him. My shoes only hit a few protruding rocks along the way, but I  _ do _ almost walk right into Dan - it’s very dark. 

 

“Phil?” His voice is quiet now, basically a whisper, and I reach out to grab his shoulders so I don’t lose him again. 

 

“Hey, yeah, I’m right here. You okay?” Another flash of lightning lets me see Dan’s face for a split second, and his eyes are wide with fear. He’s still shivering under my hands, or maybe I’m shaking, but either way, it’s  _ freezing _ in here.

 

“I, uh, I think so. I mean, not  _ really _ because we’re caught in a giant fucking  _ storm, _ but I’m not dead, so I guess that counts as ‘okay’,” his voice is definitely trembling, but he keeps going. “Oh my god, what are we going to do? This is...I’m so sorry, shit, this is all my fault. I knew it was coming and I still went out here, and I dragged you with me, and…” I pull him into a hug.

 

He doesn’t move for a few moments, aside from the shivering - then I feel his arms wrap around me cautiously, and my heart skips a beat as I hold him closer.

 

“It’s fine, we’re going to be fine,” he doesn’t break the hug, so I don’t either - after a few minutes, I feel his head rest on my shoulder, and his hands fall from my back down to hang in a loose loop around my waist.

 

“What are we supposed to do?” His voice is muffled from talking into my jacket, and I pull him away just enough that I  _ think _ I can see his face. 

 

“We’ll just stay here and wait for it to let up a little, it’ll be fine,” I’m not sure if I keep saying that for him or for me, but his hand finds mine and he leads me farther on into the cave.

 

At first, I think my eyes are adjusting more to the dark, but a few stumbled steps later and we’re standing in a wide space with a huge hole in one side, facing out to the ocean - it’s the ambient light, which is just enough to see by. It doesn’t stop my heart racing, though, when Dan drops my hand and disappears off to the side of the cave.

 

“Dan?” I don’t want to move, in case I get lost, but he’s back at my side in under a minute, holding something in my face.

 

“Here, energy bar.” I’m about to ask where he got them -  _ magical cave vending machine? _ \- but he keeps talking, and he’s calmed down. “I come out here to draw a lot. It’s my favorite spot, really. So I keep some snacks here, in case I’m here a while. The bars stay for ages,”  _ Finally, he’s starting to open up, talk more _ . I smile and take the bar, a little surprised when his arm links with mine and he pulls me over to a semi-dry spot on the ground.

 

He lowers himself carefully, and I do the same, tearing into the bar. I’m not starving, but I could definitely use some energy - the cold is sapping  _ all _ of it. I’m just about to take my second bite when Dan tugs at my arm, and I look over. He’s staring out the hole, which reminds me of  _ something _ that I can’t place, then he shifts a little to the left. And tugs me again, so I scoot closer to him.  _ Not complaining. _

 

“Right... _ here _ ,” he says, pointing, and I follow his finger to the ocean.  _ Oh, the drawings! _ The only difference, of course, is that the sky looks nothing like the calm images I’d seen the day before. “Isn’t it amazing?” his voice is soft, and I’ll admit, it’s pretty cool, but I’m more mesmerized by Dan: he’s staring like he might be trying to capture the whole storm in his head to put down on paper later.

 

“Yeah, breathtaking,” I know I’m staring at  _ him _ , and it’s really sappy, and I don’t know exactly how he feels, but he’s so transfixed that  _ surely _ he won’t notice me staring, or notice what I said. Or what I meant.  _ But I kind of hope he does notice, then at least I’d know... _

 

But the moment passes, and he’s still watching the ocean. 

 

“I wish I had my sketchbook, I’ve never seen it from here during a storm.” I almost ask why, until I realize that’s a silly question. _ Because then he’d be stuck in a storm, like we are right now.  _ I try not to be  _ too _ sad that he’s so entranced by the storm outside; it feels like he’s forgotten I’m even here, the way he’s staring, until he leans against me. And I smile pretty big.

 

“Well,” I offer, wrapping my arm around his shoulders, “you’re really good at drawing by memory.” He doesn’t shake my arm off, and I hope it’s because he  _ wants  _ it there and not just because it’s freezing. 

 

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. The real thing is always better,” he sounds...not  _ sad _ , really, but a little disappointed. We both stare at the ocean in silence for a while, and I try not to get too visibly excited when an idea pops into my head.  _ If we ever get out of here… _

 

\-----------------------------------

 

We finally get back to the house safely - the rain let up just enough for us to make a break for it, and we got inside minutes before it started to pour again. Dan’s watching outside as he towels off, and he looks calm; I, on the other hand, am very on edge from the thunder shaking the house.

 

“Do you want to, uh, stay in my room again?” I’m in the kitchen, making some hot chocolate; I almost can’t hear him, since he’s still facing the window.

 

“That depends,” I say, suddenly in a much better mood. “Are we gonna argue about who sleeps on the bed again?” Like before, I’m a little worried he might not get that I’m teasing, but he wraps the towel around his shoulders and joins me in the kitchen.

 

“Figured we’d just, y’know, share the bed,” he’s very focused on the mug I hand him at first, but he looks up to meet my gaze after a few seconds. 

 

“Good plan,” I smirk, hip checking him as I go to sit at the table and drink my chocolatey beverage. 


	12. Teal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is fluffy.

Dan only stays in the kitchen for a little, just enough time to finish his hot chocolate, then he’s rushing up the staircase.  _ Time for me to do some research _ .

 

By the evening, I’ve placed an order and made a few calls, and I close my laptop triumphantly -  _ tomorrow is going to be amazing _ . I do have to meet with the contractors in the morning, but that shouldn’t take all day, and I’ve been promised that everything I need will be ready by the afternoon.  _ Which means I can show Dan tomorrow night _ .

 

When my mouth stretches in a yawn, I decide it’s as good a time as any to get ready for bed. Dan only ventured down once to grab a snack a couple hours ago, so I’m not sure if he’s still awake. I yawn again as I climb -  _ we got up  _ way _ too early this morning… _

 

I shower quickly, then make my way down the hall toward Dan’s room. And stop outside the art room when I notice the light under the door.

 

“Dan?” I knock softly, hoping I’m not disturbing him.  _ I wonder if he’ll even let me in...he wasn’t too happy the last time I was in here. _ I listen for movement, but there’s nothing for almost a minute, and I’m about to step away. Until the door creaks open.

 

“Uh, hi, everything okay?” He asks, and I can’t help but smile. His cheeks are flushed -  _ when aren’t they? _ \- and his hair is a fluffy mess on his head. Black smudges from his hand leave marks on the door where he’s holding it.

 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just thought maybe you’d like some company?” I offer, fingers crossed behind my back.  _ I know we hung out all morning, and we’re gonna be literally sleeping together, but… _ ”You can say no!” I rush to add. I don’t want to be pushy.

 

“Oh!” It’s a soft one, like he’s surprised I’d even consider spending more time with him. “Uh, actually, I was just finished. I was about to…” he trails off, pointing toward his bedroom. Then  _ my _ face turns a little red.  _ Did he stop because of me? _

 

“Oh, sure! Right, that’s where I was headed too, until I noticed you were in here. I’ll see you in there, I guess!” I hope my enthusiasm is hiding my embarrassment at how awkward that was. 

 

I’m already settled into the bed, eyes drifting a little, when Dan comes in. I’m facing the entrance, so the moment I hear the door open, I’m wide awake again - though I keep my eyes shut. Some shuffling and drawers opening and closing tells me he must be grabbing some pajamas, and he disappears into the bathroom.

 

So as not to seem suspicious -  _ or is it more suspicious? _ \- I turn toward the middle of the bed, that way I’ll be facing him when he lays down. My heart is racing, the events of today running around in my head like rabid monkeys.  _ He let me hold his hand, he hugged me back, does that mean something? Am I just making it mean something? Did it mean anything to  _ him _?  _

 

The bathroom door opens, and I hold my breath. My eyes are still closed, so I listen carefully to the soft footsteps he takes to get to the bed. The sinking of the mattress on his side is a combination of comforting and exciting, but I can’t move. I don’t want him to freak out.  _ I’m sort of freaking out. _

 

“ _ Phil _ ?” His voice is quiet -  _ everything about him is so soft _ \- and I can feel a tiny smile curl my cheeks. I’m afraid to respond, so I don’t give away that I’ve been awake, but my heart is kind of yelling at me to say something. 

 

“Mhm?” I try to match his volume. I can feel him shifting beside me, then his eyes are sparkling only a foot from mine. 

 

“Sorry, were you asleep?” He asks, and I smile wider.  _ Can’t really lie now, or he’ll feel bad. _

 

“No, what’s up?” I ask, hoping to redirect the conversation. I watch the reflections in his eyes disappear as he closes them and takes a deep breath. Then another. I wait, staring at the darkness in the spot where his face is.

 

“Nothing, it’s silly, forget I said anything,” I feel him shifting again, turning away and shutting down, and I don’t think about it, I just reach out. My hand lands on his shoulder - I aimed high, just to be on the safe side - and I squeeze it gently.

 

“What is it?” He freezes at my touch, and I can almost  _ hear _ the gears in his head whirring as he tries to decide what to do.  _ Please just say it, whatever it is. _ Now  _ I’m  _ getting nervous. There’s a very long silence.

 

“Do you like me?” He blurts it out, and it’s almost  _ loud _ in the quiet of the room. And I’m  _ definitely _ nervous - what if I say I like him, and he doesn’t like me? What if I lie, and it turns out he  _ does _ like me? 

 

_ What if you tell the truth, and he likes you too? _ I hear the tiny voice in my head and my heart latches onto it.  _ Besides, he may be shy, but he has no problem telling me when he doesn’t like what I’m doing...and he let me hold his hand the whole time on the beach earlier. _

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” I wonder if we’ve switched places, with how loud he was and how quiet my response is. I hold my breath, waiting for any kind of reaction. I hear an equally soft ‘oh’ - really, it could’ve just been him breathing - but it makes my heart sink.  _ He doesn’t feel the same way. _

 

“Uhm...I think…” he starts, and I pull my hand back.  _ Here it goes, he’s going to ask me to leave, to go sleep on the sofa, and he’s never gonna want to talk to me again and… _ “ _ Imaybelikeyoutoo _ ,” it’s all a single breath, but the words send a bolt of electricity through my veins. He still isn’t looking at me, and I can feel the bed shift as he curls into himself. 

 

Instead of saying something -  _ as if I even know what to say to that, he actually likes me back! _ \- I reach my hand out again. I find his shoulder - it hasn’t moved much - and trace down his arm until I can feel his hand. It’s clenched tight in a fist, but he relaxes just enough at my touch; I intertwine my fingers with his and rub small circles over his skin with my thumb.

 

He calms down in the silence, and my breath hitches when he rolls to face me - properly  _ rolls _ , so his nose is now only a couple inches from mine. His eyes are wide, and I’m tempted to lean in, close the gap, and press my lips to his. 

 

I don’t, though, because he’s ducked his head to rest on my shoulder just a moment later, and his hand is draped over my side, and I can feel the warmth of his breaths - faster, now, than they were before - against my neck.

 

“Is this okay?” I grin - his voice is just as unsure as the other night when he’d asked the same thing. 

 

“Absolutely,” I reach around him, adjusting so my arm’s under him and he can use my chest as a pillow.  _ A lot like the first night _ . Listening to his breathing even out, I’m starting to drift off myself, and I press a gentle kiss to the top of his head.  _ I was right, his hair  _ is _ really soft… _


	13. Seafoam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil enacts his plan to surprise Dan.

When my alarm reminds me that I have actual stuff to do today, I somehow manage to  _ not _ wake Dan - he’s still curled into me, and it takes some awkward shifting to get him resting comfortably on the pillow. Even though he’s still asleep, he makes soft noises of protest once I leave, and it takes a huge amount of willpower not to climb back into the bed and cuddle into him.

 

I have to meet the contractors at ten, so I make myself some toast and a cup of coffee before I go. As I’m draining the last bit from the mug, a creaking at the staircase grabs my attention. Dan’s stood there, one hand on the railing and the other rubbing his eye with a sweater paw -  _ he looks like a sleepy puppy _ . 

 

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I note, rinsing out the cup as he wanders into the kitchen.

 

“No, woke up on my own. Just didn’t know where you’d gone,” his voice is thick with sleep, still, and he looks so cozy and adorable; as soon as he’s within reach, I pull him toward me in a hug. He stiffens at first, and I worry I might be pushing him just a bit too far too fast. Then warm arms wrap around my back, and he leans into me. And seems content to stay forever.  _ I would be, too, if I didn’t have to go meet the contractors... _ I push him away gently, and he stares at me with disappointed brown puppy eyes.

 

“I’ll be back later,” I laugh, giving him a quick squeeze. “I have to meet the contractors at the cabin, it might take a while.” I add the last part on as insurance, since I don’t really know how long my preparations will take and I don’t want him to get suspicious.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

I decide to walk to the cabin, since it’s so close, and have the cab pick me up from there to go into town. The contractors basically poke around for an hour while I walk around the place, trying to remember if it was  _ this _ wall or  _ that  _ wall that Martyn had accidentally kicked a hole in when we were younger.

 

“Mr. Lester?” I turn at my name to see the head of the group walking my way. He explains that they’ll need a couple months to complete the repairs properly, as there’s some underlying structural damage that needs to be fixed. I nod, though I really don’t absorb most of what he’s saying except that I’ll need to be here a while - they’ve promised to send a detailed description of the repairs and a quote to my parents, anyway.

 

I can feel the excitement tingling under my skin as Jim drives me into town - we have a few stops, but the first and most important is the visitor’s center. I’d reached out to the tourism department for the town, which was very small and had a...well, let’s just say  _ sub-par _ website, during my research yesterday. They were more than happy to oblige when my request was so simple, and I’d offered to do all the work at no cost.

 

Jim stops in front of the cutesy little building, and I pop inside. The majority of the tourist-shop items are centered around the beauty of the island -  _ guess that’s why they were so quick to agree to my proposal. _ The woman at the reception desk looks incredibly confused when I explain, until I get to the part about the cameras.

 

“Oh! I don’t suppose you mean these?” She pulls out a small crate full to the brim with equipment, and I beam at her.

 

“Exactly those! Thank you,” she has me sign to say I picked them up, then Jim and I are off again; we arrive at the post office, where I had a few things rush-delivered.  _ Thanks, Amazon! _

 

Our next stop is where my work actually begins. We head to the docks, first, since they’re the closest, and it only takes me twenty minutes to figure out how to get everything wired up properly. Once I do, I swing my bag around and pull out my laptop to check the video feed. A few adjustments later, and I’m back in the cab.

 

The next stop is farther out, and it overlooks a pretty scenic field which - I’m told - is lovely under a full moon.  _ I’m sure it would be, if the clouds ever clear enough that you can see it! _ I set up the camera anyway, checking it quickly before moving on. 

 

The process is faster each time, and by the fifth setup, I’m a pro. I’m bouncing in the seat as we pull up to the last location, the one that really matters. I requested some special equipment for this setup, so I could hang the camera instead of standing it up - I’d told the department it was to keep things from swept away if the cave flooded. I stare at the feed for several minutes, making tiny changes until I’m satisfied it matches the sketch I’d snuck out of the art room this morning.

 

I check the time -  _ phew, already three? _ \- and return to the idling car. Instead of climbing in, though, I grab my bag from the back and tap on the window. Once Jim’s rolled it down, I stick a wad of cash through.

 

“Here, and thank you  _ so much _ for chauffeuring me around all day. I think I’ll just walk from here,” I know the walk isn’t long, and none of my stuff is all that heavy.  _ Besides, Jim’s literally just been driving then sitting for hours waiting for me _ . He tries to protest, but I drop the money in the passenger seat and throw a ‘goodbye’ over my shoulder as I march off down the beach.

 

It doesn’t take long to get back to the house, and I’m immensely relieved when Dan’s nowhere in sight. I spend the next couple hours working on a much nicer design for the visitor center’s website, complete with the live feeds I’d just set up, and send over some concepts.  _ Phase one, complete. Time for phase two. _

 

I set the water in the pot on the stove, pulling out a few other necessary dinner items, then make my way to the stairs.

 

“Dan?” I call from the base, bag slung over my back in what I hope looks like a very normal, casual way. I hear the creaky footsteps just a moment before Dan’s ruffled hair appears around the corner.

 

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were back. What’s up?” He’s smiling, and I almost forget my plan, I’m sort of just staring at him.

 

“Right! I, uh, was going to make some dinner, and I’ve just set the pot to boiling, but I forgot I wanted to...uh, put a few things away. Could you just come watch the stove so it doesn’t boil over?” I’m not sure how believable an excuse it is, but I have to be sure he’s occupied for long enough.

 

“Sure,” he’s still smiling as he descends, and I pull him into a quick hug before rushing up the stairs myself. Once I’m sure he’s in the kitchen, I take very careful and quiet steps toward the art room. 

 

The actual setup itself only took me a couple minutes, but clearing the space for it was another story, and I’m just shutting the door when Dan calls from downstairs.

 

“Hey, Phil, it’s boiling, do you want me to put the pasta in?” I sneak my way back to the stairs as quickly as I can, then rush down and into the kitchen.

 

“Oh, no, that’s fine, I’m back now!” I smile, hoping my face isn’t giving anything away, and start to unpackage the noodles. 

 

“Okay, let me know if you need anything else!” I freeze as I hear Dan head toward the stairs, then whip around.

 

“Uhh...actually! Do you want some wine? This shouldn’t take long to make, then we can eat.” I reach into the cupboard, pulling out a couple glasses, and he returns to the kitchen.  _ You have to wait, it has to be a surprise! _

 

“Oh, you’re making it for me as well?” He seems like he wasn’t expecting that, so I roll with it and hand him a glass.

 

“Of course! You made me dinner the first night I was here, I’m just returning the favor,” he blushes a little and takes a sip, leaning against the counter next to me.  _ I wonder if he’s blushing because he’s remembering that night, or if he’s blushing because I’m making him dinner… _ “Besides, I ruined it the first time by basically burning my hand off. Second date has to be better,” I smirk at him, throwing the word ‘date’ in there to see how he reacts.

 

Admittedly, I did not expect him to almost choke on his sip of wine, and now I almost feel bad.  _ Almost _ .

 

“It wasn’t a  _ date _ ,” he sputters out, and I chuckle at his flushed cheeks.

 

“Well, even better, then  _ this _ is our first date!” I laugh when his mouth drops open, but the pasta’s just about done and I turn my attention toward it.  _ Give him a minute to pick his jaw up off the floor _ . 

 

From that point on, though, I’m a perfect gentleman - no more teasing, and we eat in a comfortable kind of silence. Then Dan insists on cleaning up, since I did the same when he cooked; I agree, then look past him to see the sun slowly sinking in the sky.  _ Okay, time for the big reveal _ . I can feel my heart start to flutter in my chest.

 

“Hey,” I nudge Dan as he’s almost finished. “Can I show you something?” He looks at me quizzically for a second before nodding, so I take his still-damp hand and lead him up the stairs.

 

If I’m nervous, I think he’s even more so - he hesitates behind me, lagging back, and I almost smack my head when I realize.  _ I’m literally dragging him up here, down the hall toward his bedroom, and I said I wanted to ‘show him something’... _ “The art room!” I blurt out as soon as it hits me, and I look back at him apologetically. 

 

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem anxious anymore, but he’s narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. 

 

“Were you in there  _ again _ ?” He asks as I rest my hand on the handle. I drop his hand, and he crosses his arms.

 

“Well...yes, but I promise I didn’t break anything! Just...wait here for like five seconds?” I raise a hand, as if I’m asking a puppy to stay, and my nerves make me want to start laughing. “When I knock, you can come in, okay?” I don’t move until I’ve got a reluctant nod from Dan, then I slip inside the door and close it behind me.

 

I’ve already left my laptop open and plugged into the projector, so I pull up the feed from the camera in the cave. The timing is  _ perfect _ , just as the sun’s setting over the ocean, and the image fits right in the space on the wall I’d cleared earlier - it looks like his sketches are framing the edges of the cave. I take a deep breath, watching the scene for a moment, before I knock on the door from my side.  _ I really really really hope he likes it. _

 

Dan opens the door, still eyeing me suspiciously, and steps inside. I’ve left the lights off, and the window is still covered with papers, so the projection stands out pretty well, and he freezes once he sees it. _ Please please please I hope you like it _ . I’m holding my breath, and I think he is as well.

 

“What…” Dan breaks the silence, and I suddenly feel like I have to explain everything.

 

“Well you love this view so much, and I know you can’t see it during a storm and I  _ know _ it isn’t the real thing but I got the tourist people to set this up so now you can see it any time you want, even when you can’t be there, and I just thought maybe you’d…” I stop, my excitement turning sour. He still hasn’t said anything, he’s still staring at the image on the wall. “I’m sorry,” I try not to sound too disappointed, but I had been  _ so sure _ he’d love it. “I’ll, uh, get it out of your way, sorry.”

 

That must bring him back to reality, because he turns around and stares at  _ me _ now, and his eyes look watery.  _ Oh my god, did I make him  _ cry _? I didn’t mean- _

 

And then his lips are on mine, and his arms are around my neck, and I don’t know  _ what _ just happened, but I hold him closer and deepen the kiss. After a few...very  _ intense _ minutes, he pulls away from me and smiles, and it’s  _ amazing _ . 

 

“Nobody has  _ ever _ done anything like this for me,  _ thank you _ ,” his lips meet mine again, but it’s quick and gentle; I don’t care, though, because I just want to stare at him, to see how happy he looks, to memorize his smile the way he memorized mine.

 

I have a  _ really  _ good feeling about the memories I’ll be making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh this was originally going to be the end but I had a mini inspiration so look out for a little piece most likely on Sunday :)


	14. A Christmas Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil can't get out of going home for Christmas.

“ _Can you see me now?_ ” Dan’s voice breaks up a little, and the video feed is still black. Some clicking, then some tapping. “ _Wait, no, hold on, I think I’ve got it now,_ ” I try not to laugh - for a millennial, he’s pretty awful at technology sometimes.

 

“No, I can’t see anything yet,” I sit back on the bed, letting my eyes roam my room - it hasn’t changed since I left. I’m visiting my family for the holidays and it’d be silly to stay anywhere else, so I get to pretend to live in 2009 for a while. I let my thoughts wander to the island, to Dan, as my eyes settle on the drawing he gave me.

 

“It’s an early Christmas gift, since you’ll be gone over Christmas,” his voice was so soft and sad, I didn’t want to leave. But I already had the tickets to go home, and my parents wouldn’t have any kind of rescheduling. So the sketch had gone up as soon as I got home - I haven’t even really unpacked yet.

 

“ _Okay, what about...now?_ ” Dan’s voice - his actual voice, not the one in my memory - comes through more clearly, and I can see a grainy video of the art room. Just the room, no Dan.

 

“Yeah,” I chuckle, “I have the video now, but I don’t have _you_ ,” I try not to sound too disappointed, but I want every moment of his face I can get; my family’s celebrating with all our distant relatives today and then just my parents and brother and I tomorrow, so I won’t have a lot of time to talk with him.

 

“ _Wait, the camera’s...wait, I have it, hold on,_ ” the image shakes, then turns toward the door. A pang of homesickness hits me. _Which is silly, because I_ am _home._ The words don’t sit in my stomach though, and I know they’re not really true. _Home is where the heart is._

 

And my heart is currently with the boy who’s crouching down in front of the webcam, squinting at it intently.

 

“Hello,” I wave, and his eyes flick between the camera and something behind the laptop. It takes me a moment to realize why. “Did you project me up on the wall?” I laugh as he stands, and I’m given a wonderful shot of the ripped knees of his black jeans. “Well now I can’t see anything but your legs,” I pout, hoping it’s coming across in my voice.

 

“ _Yes, I did. It’s as close to the real thing as I can get, so I’m going with it,_ ” he crouches down again, then readjusts the webcam so it’s tilted up toward his face as he plops down heavily on the floor.

 

“Ooh, what a flattering angle,” I tease, and I can see the way the blush creeps from his neck up to his cheeks from the position he’s got the camera in; he fumbles with the angle again. “You look gorgeous,” I reassure him, smiling softly and setting my own laptop on the bed to more comfortably prop my chin up on my hands.

 

“ _Shut up,_ ” he’s looking away from the camera, down at the floor, and I’m amazed that I can see the exact moment his eyes light up before he brandishes a sketch to show me. “ _Look, it was storming again yesterday, doesn't it look just like it did that first night?_ ” I grin, not just because he’s cute when he’s excited, but because it _does_ look just the same.

 

“That’s amazing. You’re remarkable, you know that?” In the past few months, I realized two things: the first, Dan’s shy. Which is sort of an obvious statement, but he could actually play a Boo in a Mario game, the way he hides and blushes every time I look at him. The second thing, though, is sadder: he doesn’t get much praise, or accept it - apparently, the fact that people actually _pay money_ for his art isn’t enough reassurance that he’s good at what he does.

 

“ _I mean, it’s okay, I guess,_ ” he’s doing it again, flipping the paper over to squint at it. His gaze has turned critical, like he’s trying to pick out everything he’d change, do differently. He sets the page aside, then turns back to the camera. Well, to the projection of me, which is a bit higher up.

 

“It’s beautiful. You know what else is beautiful?” I never miss an opportunity to compliment him, either, because I don’t think he sees himself like I do - even from this silly angle, even though he’s clearly flustered from trying to set up the video, he looks like…I laugh when he ducks his head, but he can’t hide the dimple that deepens the moment I answer my own question. “ _You_ are.”

 

“ _I miss you,_ ” he bites his lip, and my smile turns a little sour. I had to leave early, meet my parents in London first to meet my brother and his girlfriend, then come back with them to the house. It’s been a few days, but it feels _so much longer_ when we’ve literally been living together the past couple months.

 

“I know, I miss you too. Here, have a virtual hug!” I try for enthusiasm, and I think I do an okay job as I sit up and pull my laptop to my chest; Dan snorts in response, and I hear some comment about me being a kitchen utensil. “I know it’s not the same, but I’ll be back soon, yeah?” The contractors are estimating at least another month of work, and the cabin has to be put on the market after that - we have some time before we have to start really thinking about what comes next for us.

 

“ _Yeah, I guess,_ ” he frowns, though, and my bright smile falters.

 

“Oh! Do you want a tour of my room?” I lift the laptop, reinforcing my grin and hoping to distract him. _I don’t want to ever see him sad._ I spend the next fifteen minutes showing him around every corner of my room, though it’s pretty small, before sitting down on the floor next to my closet. “Wow, I think this is much more _your_ style,” I joke, pulling out an old black shirt. This earns me a chuckle, and a snide remark.

 

“ _Please, I wouldn’t wear that! Too many bright colors,_ ” he’s staring above me, at the projection, and I drop the shirt to smile at him. I don’t think it’s any kind of special smile, I’m not _doing_ anything different, but he holds up a hand and looks frantically between me and the webcam. “ _Wait, wait, don’t move, hold on,_ ” he fumbles with a few keys and I try not to move before he finally relaxes. “ _I want to draw that, later,_ ” he smiles softly, and it’s _my_ turn to blush a little - I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that he wants to draw _me_ , that he wants to spend his time on _me_ instead of something more interesting. _He loves to draw the ocean, the sky._

 

The idea of what that might mean, what he must think of me, how he must _feel_ about me - it’s overwhelming.

 

Before I can respond, or even _think_ of a response, my mum is calling up the stairs for me to come down because _guests are arriving soon, Phil, you’d better get down here and help your brother finish cleaning up or..._ I tune out the rest, frowning at Dan.

 

“I have to go or my mum might actually chop my arm off or something. Did I tell you, she’s actually a lobster?” Dan sputters out a laugh at the unexpected comment, and I’m glad I get to leave him smiling. “I’ll skype you later, okay?” I’m once again hit with the absurdity that he doesn’t have an actual _cell phone_ , and I can’t just text him whenever I want.

 

“ _Yeah, okay,_ ” his tone has fallen, along with his gaze, and I don’t even _think_ properly, I just…

 

“I love you!” I don’t mean to say it - I mean, I _mean_ it, but I don’t mean to _say_ it, because...everything with Dan is _slow_ , and that’s okay, but... _oh shit, did I just...? I just scared him away, I’m moving way too fast, he probably doesn’t feel that way, and I’ve probably gone and rushed him into saying something he might not feel or-_

 

I close the skype call before I can hear a response from him, before I can see a reaction, then bite my thumb absently. _Shit. What did I just do?_ I’ve been _so_ careful to take things at whatever pace he’s comfortable with - it’s clear he’s not really been in a relationship before this, and I want him to feel safe and...I want him to be _happy_ , but what if I just put him in a position that’ll make him unhappy?

 

I stare at my screen for what feels like an hour but can’t be more than a few minutes, because my mum’s shouting up at me again, and I doubt she’d let me get out of cleaning for an _hour_ . So I stand, a little shaky and a _lot_ freaked out.

 

Fortunately - or _un_ fortunately - I don’t have much time to think about it until later, when half the family’s already left for the evening and the rest of us are sat around the lounge and chatting aimlessly.

 

Well, everyone _else_ is chatting. I’ve had it up to my ears with being social, trying to explain that _no_ , I don’t have a job yet, and _actually,_ I’ve been staying on the island for a couple months and _really,_ I haven’t ‘met’ anyone yet (I’ve told my parents and Martyn about Dan, but I’m not sure everyone in the extended family will be as supportive - they’re a bit ‘traditional’). I’m thoroughly exhausted, sitting back against the edge of the couch, when I decide I _have_ to start thinking about Dan again. About what I said.

 

 _I_ do _love him, that’s a hundred percent true. But was it unfair of me to say that, because what if he just feels pressured to say it back now?_ Logic and emotion start swinging swords at each other, and my mum - bless her for noticing my spacey-ness - suggests I go get started on the dishes. I retreat to the kitchen, finally alone for a little, to worry in peace.

 

My hands are pruney by the time I’ve finished, and the last of our relatives are just leaving, but I’m still freaking out about what I said to Dan; cleaning dishes did not help clean my head out. I’m back in the lounge, saying my requisite goodbyes, and I excuse myself to go see if Dan’s still awake; it’s late, though, and I doubt it. _Maybe that’s a good thing, I can spend more time worrying - I mean,_ thinking _\- about this..._

 

By the time I lock myself in my room and open my laptop, the beginnings of a headache are coming on. Relief mixes with guilt in my stomach when I notice Dan’s not online, so I send a quick message.

 

 **Phil (23:48)** : _Hey just wanted to say good night, sorry I couldn’t skype before you went to bed!_

 

I ultimately decide _not_ to comment on my admission - _I mean, maybe he didn’t even notice? What if the audio lagged or something, and I ended the call before he heard it?_ I frown - even _I_ wouldn’t believe that, and I believe in _lots_ of things that most people don’t. I stand to plug my laptop in, then collapse onto the bed - need for sleep must outweigh the need to sort out my head, because I drift off before my thoughts can overwhelm me.

 

\--------------------------------

 

Suffice to say, I wake up with a headache. And a message from Dan - the latter is much more confusing.

 

 **Dan (6:23)** : _That’s alright, I think there’s a storm today, may not have much internet access. Talk to you when you get back!_

 

I stare at the words for a solid minute before they make it past my eyeballs and into my brain. _Oh._ My heart kind of crumbles in on itself - I’d really hoped to wish Dan a merry Christmas in person. Well, virtually-in-person. _He didn’t even wish me a merry Christmas..._ I stare for a moment longer, disappointment flooding in like I’m the Titanic.

 

The sketch on the wall catches my attention, as I’m wallowing in homesickness, and I decide to get an actual glimpse of the cave. It won’t be sunset, like in Dan’s drawing, but it’ll have to do. After a particularly slow moment of loading, the ocean pops into view on my screen, framed perfectly by the cave walls. I smile, sort of, and try to come up with how Dan would describe the scene.

 

_The ocean is dark and frigid, like black ice in motion - the sky is icy too, but the kind of ice you find when an air bubble is trapped under a frozen lake. It’s the perfect complement to the dark waves below, excellently opposite. But it doesn’t matter that they’re so different, because the ocean is still there and the sky is still there, and they’re always in touch with each other -  together, even when they’re not._

 

They aren’t his words, not really, but I imagine him saying them and it’s calming. _He’s the waves, I’m the sky, we’re still together even when we aren’t._ I take a deep breath and stand; today’s going to be a long day, though it’s already almost noon - I won’t be going home until late tomorrow.

 

 _Oh._ I can’t stop thinking about his message. _He didn’t bring up the ‘I love you’ thing..._ I thank my brain for being so kind as to remind me of that little slip of the tongue - but maybe he _didn’t_ hear it, and I _don’t_ have to be worried he’s going to run away. _Or maybe he’s already running…_ I rub my hands across my face a few times in an attempt to focus on _anything_ else.

 

Fortunately, as I’m getting dressed, I notice the smell of pancakes - the sweet, American kind - from the kitchen downstairs. Which is odd, because my mum rarely makes American pancakes. _Merry Christmas, indeed!_ I take the stairs faster than I probably should, socks sliding on the wood, but I somehow manage to make it down safely. I grin when I notice the tree, presents stacked underneath, but I have to refocus my excitement - _one thing at a time. First, pancakes!_

 

“About time!” Mum laughs at me as I slide into the kitchen, staring at a stack of pancakes. There’s some syrup, fruit, and butter all set out, and I give her a quick hug and a ‘merry Christmas’ before filling a plate - admittedly, I put more food on it than I can really eat, but I’m just _excited_.

 

It takes a few minutes for the sugary bliss to fade, and I realize I’ve not yet seen Martyn or my dad. I pose the question to my mum, around a mouthful of pancake.

 

“Chew your food! Your dad’s just gone to shower, and Martyn had to run and pick something up,” she gives me a _look_ , eyes wide and eyebrows raised, before turning back to the sink. I squint back at her, chewing my bite and swallowing before I ask.

 

“Picking up something? Everything’s closed, it’s _Christmas_ ,” I say as if it’s so _obvious_ , but it _is_ Christmas, so unless he’s gone to pick up Santa, I can’t imagine what he’s out there for. Instead of responding, she just hums and continues scrubbing, so I shrug and dig back into the pancakes. I feel like I might regret it later, but I stuff one more bite in my mouth - it’s just _tasty_.

 

There’s no snow outside, which is a little disappointing, but what’s _more_ disappointing is how long it’s taking Martyn to return from his mysterious adventure into the wasteland of closed shops.

 

“What, did he drive all the way to London or something?” I ask, peeking out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes. We’re meant to be opening presents now, and I had Dan’s help to make some for my parents and brother - I’m really excited to see what they think. _Dan._ I bite my lip, feeling a little tug at my heart just thinking about him. _I hope his grandma visits him, at least. He shouldn’t be alone on Christmas._

 

I don’t have to be sad for long, though, because Martyn’s car pulls up and I fly from the window to round up my parents. It’s nearly one in the afternoon, now, and I’ve been trying to distract myself with Animal Crossing, but it hasn’t really been working.

 

“Mum,” I ask over my shoulder once I’m back at the window, “did Martyn pick up Cornelia, or…” I trail off, watching as the second person gets out of the passenger side and comes into view.

 

Then I’m out the door, socks squishing in the melting frost on the grass as I run to _Dan_ , who’s somehow _here_ and not on the island and-

 

“Dan!” I shout, nearly tackling him to the ground in a hug. “What are you, I mean, it’s-” I step back, though not very far, and my breath is clouding in between us.

 

“You’re welcome, bro,” Martyn smacks me on the shoulder on his way in, a small bag slung from his shoulder that must be Dan’s. “Merry Christmas!” He must it shout once he’s almost at the door, because his voice sounds far away - my eyes haven’t left Dan’s.

 

“Merry Christmas,” his voice is so much softer, and I can’t stop grinning. “I mean, it’s okay that I’m here, right?” He scrunches his brows together, frowning a little and biting his lip. “I just, I wasn’t sure, I mean, I wanted to be with you and your parents wouldn’t let-” I shut him up with a kiss, surprised at how cold his lips are compared to my warm ones.

 

When we pull apart, he smiles back at me - I poke his dimple, and he laughs as he bats my hand away.

 

“Yes,” I finally answer his question, “this is...how did you even get here?” I mean, I’m sure he took a boat or flew or something, but…

 

“I wanted to surprise you, since you couldn’t come back for Christmas, so I figured I’d come here. I spoke to your parents ahead of time, I, uh, I hope that’s alright,” he looks down at my chest, so I lift his chin back up.

 

“It’s more than alright, it’s _amazing_ ,” my face feels stuck in a permanent smile, and it takes a full thirty seconds of us staring at each other before I remember that we’re out in the middle of winter and I’ve only got socks on - socks which are already soaked through, and I wiggle my toes to fight off the cold. “Maybe we should go inside? I can give you some proper introductions,” I grab his hand, which is protected by a fingerless glove, and pull him toward the house.

 

Though he’s quiet, my family certainly is _not_ \- they poke and prod and pull information from him most of the afternoon and through dinner, about his artwork and his life on the island and his plans for the future.

 

“I’m not sure yet, I may go back to school for something art-related, or maybe business, so I can expand my sales, open an online shop.” I nod at his side - we’ve talked about this. We’ve talked a _lot_ \- there isn’t a ton to do on the tiny island. Once we’d both finished eating, his hand had found mine under the table. I don’t know if it’s obvious to my family, but they haven’t said anything, and Dan’s been so much calmer since then.

 

“That’s lovely, honey. Now, you must be exhausted! We’ve barely given you a break since you got here. Phil, why don’t you show Dan your room and help him unpack?” I nod at the dismissal, trying not to actually sprint up the stairs and drag Dan along with me. _Finally, some alone time._ I let Dan take his own bag - I know better than to argue, at this point - and we head upstairs.

 

Once I’ve closed the door, I turn and lean against it.

 

“So, what do you think?” He’s staring at my room, taking it all in, though I know he’s seen it already. Just not in person. “I mean,” my nerves kick in, “I know they’re a bit _much_ sometimes, but they’re-”

 

“They’re wonderful, Phil,” Dan cuts me off, smiling as he sets his bag down. “I really like them,” he’s taking slow steps back toward me, and I meet him in the middle of the room. “You know what else I really like?” His voice has gone quiet as he wraps his arms around me, and I grin at him because I already know what he’s going to say.

 

“Yeah, what’s that?” I play along, looping my own arms around his shoulders as he leans closer.

 

“This _picture_ , I mean, _wow,_ ” he breaks away, walking over to stand right in front of the sketch he’d given me before I left - I’m stood still, mouth dropped open and arms still half-raised in the air. _Did he just…?_ “I mean, _who made this?_ They have some serious talent,” he’s still going on, voice light and full of humor, and I finally manage to turn toward him.

 

He’s staring intently at the drawing, hastily posted across from my bed so I’d get to look at it as often as I wanted, and nodding at it like some pretentious art critic. He glances over his shoulder at me, then breaks out in one of the fullest laughs I think I’ve ever seen from him.

 

“I...oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I just…” he’s sputtering words out, chuckling through them so they’re almost impossible to understand. “I saw it when I came in,” he manages, “and I just…” he’s calming down now, face transforming into something gentler. “It was really sweet of you to put it up, display it like that,” he’s walking back over; I really haven’t moved at all - to be fair, it’s rare for him to joke like that, I’m still recovering from the shock.

 

He throws his arms loosely around my neck, pressing his chest against mine and leaning forward to press a quick kiss to my lips - this finally unfreezes me, and I snake my own arms around his back to pull him closer.

 

“Well,” my brain is sort of working again, enough to respond, “I love to see beautiful art,” he glances back at the picture, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “And I suppose the picture is good, too,” I grin at him when his head whips back around, a blush rising to his cheeks.

 

“ _Shut up,_ ” he’s smiling, though, and I remove a hand from his back to poke at his dimple again.

 

“I missed these,” I comment mostly to myself, but he catches my eyes and chews at his lip for a second before speaking.

 

“Did you mean it?” I scrunch my eyebrows, then huff out a small chuckle.

 

“Of course, I did miss your dimples. I missed _you_ ,” I smile softly, until he shakes his head.

 

“No, I mean, you said…” he trails off, staring at a spot past my shoulder, and I frown. He glances back for a second, and his wide eyes make him look like a deer in headlights. “Yesterday, you said _‘love’_ ,” he whispers, dropping his gaze again - I think my heart stops beating.

 

It must, or something must have hit it with a freeze ray, because I blink twice before I can even feel it start beating again. Then it decides to start going at top speed, and I can’t think of anything to say. _Yes, yes I meant it, you’re beautiful and I love you and..._ my eyes skate around the room, hoping for anything else I can talk about. Until they land on his sketch; a burst of confidence floods my brain.

 

“ _Yes_ , I did, and _yes_ I mean it, and I know maybe that’s really soon to say it but I don’t want to pretend I feel differently and it’s okay if you _don’t_ feel that way because I don’t want you to feel pressured and-” I’m rambling, but the motivation that hit me just won’t let me _stop_ , and _he’s_ not saying anything...I finally look down at him - his eyes are squeezed shut, and I trail off before I can do any more damage. “I’m...I’m sorry, that was too much, too fast,” I keep my voice low.

 

I’m just stepping away - probably he just needs space right now - when his arms wrap tight around the back of my neck and pull me into him. Our lips crash together in a sort of intense kiss, and my eyes go wide before I close them and just sink into whatever this is. _Looks like I’m the Titanic again._

 

It takes a few breathless minutes for Dan to pull away, to break the kiss. His lips are red and puffy, and mine feel like they must match. His eyes flick back and forth between mine, and he runs his tongue across his lower lip like he’s about to speak. _Oh, we were talking before this, weren’t we?_ The thought drifts in on a puffy cloud, and I poke at my memories until they remind me what exactly happened to get us here.

 

“I…” Dan’s cheeks are already flushed, but I swear they turn twice as red as he swallows and locks eye contact. “ _I love you, too,_ ” then he bites a lip, turning toward my shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut again. My brain finally responds, and I figure out how to lift my hand - Dan doesn’t seem to notice the movement until my fingers find his cheek, and his eyelashes flutter. I can feel the soft exhale against my chest, because he _still_ won’t look up at me.

 

“Hey,” I’m trying to match his softness, and I offer a small smile when he _finally_ meets my gaze again. “You didn’t have to say that, if you don’t mean it, I just…” he’s always needed to go slow, and I’m okay with it - I don’t want him to feel pressured. “I won’t be upset,” I promise; he blinks and takes a very deep breath.

 

“I _do_ ,” I’m surprised by his confident tone, which I only recognize because I know what it _should_ sound like, not because I’ve ever heard it _from him_ . He pulls back a little farther, so his wrists are resting on my shoulders, and he looks like he’s examining me. “You’re _so_ thoughtful, and I pretend to hate it but I _love_ that you compliment me and my art,” he looks like he did months ago, when he was talking about the ocean - like he’s been holding all of this inside his head for awhile and is only now getting the opportunity to say it out loud.

 

“I think...I think I’ve known for ages, to be honest,” he gives himself a half-chuckle, more of a hard breath than a laugh. “Maybe even before we were... _us_ . You _listen_ \- I mean, you make me want to talk, and you actually _like_ when I talk, and you like the things I say and you don’t think I’m weird,” his eyes drift to the ceiling, and I can feel the absurd grin creeping to my face as he rambles.

 

“I didn’t really realize it was... _love_ ,” he gives the word such reverence, “until you were about to leave. Until I knew I wouldn’t get to wake up next to you.” He’s frowning, now, and I have a lot of things I _really_ want to say, but he’s right - I adore listening to him talk, and I can’t bring myself to interrupt. “That’s…” he points over his shoulder at the sketch, “what I wanted to draw, what _you_ made me want to draw, so you’d remember me and come back.” My eyes drift to the drawing - it’s not just black and white like his other sketches, it’s colorful, a style he usually avoids.

 

“You bring... _so much color_ to my life. I was afraid you’d go home and never want to come back, so I had to…” he gestures again at the sketch, “to make sure you’d remember, but then...I couldn’t just let you _leave_ , because what if the picture wasn’t enough? So then I _had_ to come here-” I shake my head, then cut off his words with a kiss - it doesn’t carry the same weight as our last one, but it’s more than enough to shut him up.

 

“Of _course_ I’m coming back. You didn’t have to do all this,” I brush a thumb across his cheekbone, the warmth under my hand reminding me just how _much_ this must’ve taken for him to say. “I love that you did, though. I love _you,_ and I would’ve come back anyway.” He smiles into my hand. “Skype, your sketches, they’re great, but the real thing is _always_ better.”


	15. Ocean in a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sea Glass from Dan's POV (plus a cheeky little extra scene at the end).

 

Artwork. He looks like fucking  _ artwork _ . This is not what I expected when my grandma called me earlier.  _ Be polite, jesus. _ I realize I’ve been standing in the doorway for more than long enough to be considered rude, but I don’t know what to say. 

 

I’m not a disrespectful person, really, and I already feel bad having taken so long to get to the door to begin with - it’s hard to hear knocking from my art room. I’d sat on the sofa for two hours after my grandma’s call, waiting for him to show up, but when he didn’t, I gave up and went upstairs.

 

“Hey, my name’s Phil, nice to meet you. Daniel, right?” He stretches a hand out toward me, breaking my train of thought, but I honestly can’t seem to form the words I would love to say.  _ Hello, you look amazing, can I draw you? _ No, no, that would be too weird. 

 

“Dan,” I correct, purely on instinct.  _ Shit, that’s not what... _ I drop my eyes, because he’s just  _ grinning _ at me, like I said something magnificent.  _ No, I don’t want  _ this  _ to be your first impression of me _ . I curse myself, staring at my feet and stepping back from the door to let him inside. I try to run from my self-consciousness, marching up the stairs and making a hard left - the guest bedroom is at the end of the hall, overlooking the sea. If it were up to me, I’d have turned the turret tower into another art room, but my grandma insists on keeping at least one room ready for guests or family.

 

“So, you live here by yourself?” I can feel my heart racing just  _ thinking  _ about having to respond, because how do I make him think I’m interesting, someone worth talking to, after my horrible lack of introduction? For the first time in ages, I want someone to actually  _ like _ me, and I have no idea how to go about it - I’m not charismatic, I can barely carry on a conversation, and most people say I come off as cold and aloof. Not that they’d say it to my  _ face _ , but I certainly overhear them.

 

“Yep,” I let a breath escape, because  _ wow _ that was horribly lame. I duck my head as we get to the door, waving a lazy hand at it, resigning to just embrace my reputation.  _ Look, alright, just treat me like everyone else. I know how to deal with that _ . Phil passes me, pushing the door open, and I squeeze my eyes shut -  _ it’s easier to be lonely, I know how to be lonely. He’ll be just like everyone else, anyway, look at how  _ bright  _ he is.  _ He’s stood just over the threshold, so I turn before he can try to engage in any further conversation.  _ Why would I ever get my hopes up? _

 

I practically run back to my room, letting my bare feet carry me softly across the wooden floors. I don’t dare slam the door, in case Phil hears, but I do slump against it once it’s closed.  _ Why does he have to be so... _ I can’t even think of the word, but my head fills with sunlight - something that flashes at the corner of your eye when you least expect it, but still demands your attention. I had been hoping for someone more like me, but even though I’ve been around him less than a minute, it’s clear we’re polar opposites.

I stare at the sky outside my window for what feels like hours but must only be minutes, then resolve to distract myself; perhaps I’ll work on my sculpture. 

 

I open my door slowly, stopping it just before I know it’ll start creaking, and peek out: at first glance, I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed to find no Phil. When I step out, however, the open door across the hall sends me into a panic. 

 

_ Be calm, be cool, _ I’m stood at the entrance to the art room before I realize I’ve even moved, and Phil’s inside and stepping around all my drawings on the floor. I nearly have a heart attack when he stops just short of the sculpture I’ve been working on for five months now.

 

“ _ Please _ be careful,” I don’t think, worry bubbling up in my chest and forcing the words out, but I try to smooth out my features -  _ calm, cool, disinterested _ \- before he turns toward me. I don’t expect him to move, but his lips frown in concentration as he makes his way back, clearly being overly cautious now.  _ He’s making fun of me. _ I bite my lip once, quickly, to fight back the lump in my throat.  _ I’m used to being made fun of, this is nothing new.  _ He  _ is nothing new.  _ I let the throbbing in my lip center me, pulling my face into what I hope is an annoyed look.

 

“Sorry about that! I didn’t touch anything, just looking,” I  _ almost _ believe him - he looks sincere - but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone managed to fake it to my face.  _ He’s nothing new. _

 

“Yeah, alright, did you need something?” I can feel my lips twisting of their own accord as I step back, despite the way I try to keep them still, and a flush crawls up to my cheeks without my permission.  _ Stop it. He was invading my privacy, I should be mad. _ I shove down the urge to ask what he thought of the art he saw.  _ Focus. _

 

“Oh! Right, the WiFi, what’s the password?” I blink, then sigh.  _ Way to be a good host, jesus _ . As I turn back toward my room to grab some paper and a pen, I frown.  _ Why do I care what he thinks? He’s just another guest, he’s just another person to judge me and gossip behind my back and think I’m some weirdo recluse who can’t draw for shit and bums off his family instead of doing something useful with his life. _

 

By the time I’m back in the hall, I’ve thoroughly talked myself down, and I shove the torn piece of paper into his hand without ceremony. 

 

“Here,” I spin on a heel, not waiting for a response.  _ Just ignore him, he’ll be gone eventually anyway.  _ When my door slams behind me, I realize I might be a  _ little _ more frustrated than I thought.

 

“ _ Well, thank you! _ ” I barely hear it through the thick wood, but a small smile tugs at my lips unexpectedly.  _ No. Stop. _ I force a frown, because he was just being polite. Nothing more.

 

In a huff, I stomp over to my desk - I haven’t left much here, most of my supplies have long since been transferred to the art room, but I keep a single notebook and pencil for when I can’t be bothered to leave my room. Or when there are guests, and I don’t want to deal with the possibility of social interaction. 

 

I slump down in my chair, letting the weight of my worn pencil in my hand comfort me. I used to listen to music, too, but the soft sound of lead on paper has become an essential component of my creative process, and I prefer to listen to the way each line makes a different sound. It’s another kind of art, another kind of music, and I sink into a trance - it helps me forget about Phil.

 

Until I lean back to assess my work: it’s nothing more than the vaguest outline of features, at this point, but it’s  _ so damn obvious _ who it is.  _ Why am I drawing this guy I just met? _ I mean, I  _ know _ why ( _ jesus christ, he’s gorgeous _ ) but I’m trying to  _ forget _ that he’s here, that he’s-

 

My thoughts are interrupted by a growl, my stomach’s kind reminder of how long I’ve been sat in the chair, and I stand. I roll my aching shoulders - a  _ second _ reminder of the amount of time I’ve spent drawing - before steeling myself to head downstairs. I can’t decide if the slight tremble in my hands stems from anxiety or excitement; either way, I  _ might _ see Phil in the next minute, and I know he’s the root cause of the feeling branching from my heart out to the ends of my limbs.

 

At the door, I pause for half a second - my room is, has  _ always  _ been, a safe space: not only is it fortified against the nastier weather we get, but it’s  _ mine _ . I can be fully myself, without reservation or fear of judgment.  _ Because I let nobody in. _ The words in my head send a pang of loneliness through me, because the room is a fucking  _ metaphor _ and I know it, but I grip my doorknob tighter and pull the damned thing open.  _ I don’t need to be psychoanalyzing myself. Everyone else already does that for me. _

 

I take one very forceful step over the threshold and run smack into something - no, some _ one _ . 

 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” I’m already rubbing a hand to my forehead, because of  _ course  _ we’re the exact same height, and of  _ course _ I ran straight into him. _ I’m such a fucking clutz, jesus, way to go.  _ My face scrunches - not from any real pain, just annoyance at my own idiocy.

 

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t realize you’d be coming out, I was going to knock but I thought you maybe didn’t want to be bothered, sorry! Are you okay?” My frustration shifts _immediately_ to embarrassment; _why is_ he _apologizing when_ I _was the one that ran right into him?_ “I mean, obviously not, but like, can I get you some ice or something?” I’m sure I look like a complete idiot, just staring, but I can’t take my eyes off him. _Why is he so damn nice?_ _And nice to look at..._ I shut that thought down as quickly as I can, trying to school my face into something more neutral.

 

“Whatever,” I brush past him, aiming for disinterest, though I realize a few steps later that I’m  _ definitely _ coming across as rude.  _ This is impossible... _ but I can’t make myself turn around or actually  _ apologize _ for running right into him.  _ He probably hurt his head, too, and I’m just running away like some pissed-off little kid. _ By the time I make it to the bottom of the staircase, I let out an exhausted sigh.  _ I have to make this up to him, _ I decide, though I’m not entirely sure  _ how _ .

 

I wander into the kitchen, remembering my original reason for leaving my room.  _ Oh, that’s something a good host does - a ‘nice person’ does. _ I pull two chicken breasts from the fridge instead of just the one.  _ I can cook decently, and I doubt he’s brought any food with him. _ A light bubbly feeling lifts from my chest all the way up to my cheeks, and I decide not to bother fighting the smile that accompanies it.

 

A creaking from the stairs startles me, though, and I bite my lip, now intent on controlling the unexpected happiness.  _ Is that what that is? Happiness? _ It’s swallowed quickly by a wave of bitterness.  _ How pathetic - happiness is so foreign that I can barely recognize the feeling. _

 

By the time Phil’s reached the bottom of the staircase, I’m back to my withdrawn self. The first five minutes that he’s sat in the lounge, I keep glancing over my shoulder.  _ Surely he’s watching, judging. _ But his eyes never leave his laptop, and I allow myself to focus fully on the food I’m preparing - it’s nothing special, really, but I take extra care in preparing it.  _ Good first impressions, _ my brain tells me, but I keep shooting it down.  _ I’m only doing it as an apology, I don’t want him to think I’m a complete ass. _

 

When the timer goes off, I slide on an oven mitt and reach down to pull the pan from the oven - when I stand, however, I jump and nearly drop the damned thing because  _ Phil is standing right fucking there and staring at me and _ -

 

He reaches out, toward the pan, and I don’t have time to process what a  _ horrible _ idea that is; before I can stop him, his hand is on the hot metal. He pulls it off with a hiss and a string of ‘ow’s, then flaps it in the air like a distressed bird. I kind of want to laugh (okay, I  _ really _ want to), but instinct kicks in - instead, I set the pan down and grab his wrist, dragging his hand under the faucet and turning it on.

 

“Stay,” I have to resist the urge to hold up my own hand, feeling a little like I’m commanding a dog.  _ Sit, stay, roll over. _ Then I’m climbing the stairs two at a time and pulling open drawers in the guest bathroom.  _ I could’ve sworn we had... _ finally, I pull open the medicine cabinet to see the bandages staring at me from the top shelf. Then I’m back in the kitchen, turning off the tap and holding Phil’s hand gently in mine.

 

I turn off the irrational, slightly excited part of my brain that can’t stop thinking about how I’m  _ holding Phil’s hand _ and focus on drying and wrapping his burn - it shouldn’t be too bad, given that he only touched the pan for half a second, but... _ why was he standing so close to begin with, and looking at me like that? _

 

“Why?” The word slips from my tongue before I can pull it back, and I stare intently at the end of the bandage I’ve been tucking in.  _ Never mind, please ignore me, I didn’t- _

 

“You were about to drop-” I shake my head, and the words spill out again. 

 

“No,  _ why _ were you staring at me?”  _ Stop, abort, ignore me,  _ I grimace at myself, because  _ why _ did I have to go and ask that?  _ What happened to being aloof and disinterested? _

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I was just coming in to ask if I could borrow some food for dinner.” _ Oh. _ Immediately, I can feel the blush rise to my cheeks. “I didn’t think to get anything before I came out here, and the grocery store won’t be delivering my food until your next delivery - I’ll pay you back, don’t worry!” I look up to find him watching me, wide-eyed and hopeful, and I curse a string in my head.  _ Why didn’t I actually  _ tell him _ I was making him dinner? _

 

“I, uh…” I point at the pan.  _ Jesus, why am I so fucking awkward? _ Phil’s still just staring, and I drop my eyes as I feel my face flush even more.  _ Hey, uh, I made you dinner cause I’m embarrassingly graceless and an antisocial mess and I didn’t know how else to apologize, because  _ regular old words _ would’ve been too difficult. _

 

“Oh, wow, you didn’t have to-” For some reason, he stops mid-sentence, and I dare a quick peek up. “Thanks, this looks great.” He’s fucking  _ smiling _ , and my brain shuts down entirely. I blink once before I manage to refocus on the food itself; as I plate, I notice he’s not moved, and - not trusting myself to actually  _ look _ at him - I point at the table, hoping he’ll get the message.

 

He does, going to sit down, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. With him at a safer distance, my manners kick in, and I offer him a drink; he’s equally polite, saying he’ll have whatever I’m having. I don’t dare look his way, or make any kind of acknowledgment, as I head for the fridge. My hand hovers over the cans of diet Coke for a moment before it drifts to the open bottle of wine.  _ Fuck it, I need the liquid courage. _

 

As I bring the wine and chicken over from the kitchen, I’m pleased to see my hands aren’t shaking. Which is a miracle, because literally every synapse in my brain is firing at maximum speed and I feel like that should be somehow translated to my external appearance. I’m so focused on continuing to exude calm, cool collectedness that I nearly jump out of my skin when Phil speaks.

 

“Okay, this is fantastic,” he’s clearly just swallowed a bite, another poised in front of his face, and I feel a little pinprick of pride glowing in my chest.  _ Quit it, he’s just being polite. It’s not like you made a five-course, Michelin-starred meal. _ The soft glow continues in spite of my chastising thoughts. I make use of the food on my plate to hide the little smile that won’t stop trying to push its way to my face.

 

“So, tell me about yourself!” I nearly jump again, but manage to - _I_ _hope_ \- cover it up with a quirk of my eyebrow. He’s just staring, and I try to chew slowly. _Maybe he’ll just...forget he asked?_ I’d roll my eyes at how absurd that sounds if I wasn’t worried he’d misinterpret it.

 

“I’d rather not,” I drop my eyes back to my plate, because nobody  _ ever _ asks about me. Nobody ever  _ cares _ .  _ I wouldn’t even know where to begin...or what he’d be interested in hearing. Would he even  _ want _ to hear about me? Probably not, he was likely just being polite again… _

 

He shrugs, and I take it as confirmation.  _ Of course he wouldn’t actually want to hear about me, my life. _ He runs off on his own tangent, his own stories, and I listen absently for a minute. But he’s unnervingly engaging when he’s talking, and I find myself fighting not to show how enraptured I am - listening is comfortable, I know how to listen, but he actually makes me want to  _ respond _ . To  _ talk _ . I settle for a safe middle ground, nodding whenever it seems appropriate but letting him go on.  _ Aloof.  _ Even though I try to hold that thought at the forefront of my mind, his anecdotes continuously replace it - I almost actually  _ laugh _ when he insists his family’s cabin is haunted.

 

I manage to cover the urge with a sip of wine -  _ shit, have I really finished my glass already?  _ \- but he’s grinning at me and it puts me off guard; I just hope my face hasn’t given too much away. Then he’s standing and reaching for my plate, and I try to protest.

 

“You  _ made me dinner _ , it’s the least I can do. If I don’t help at least a little, I’ll just feel like a freeloader!” His laughter sounds like waves crashing on the ocean - I frown, because  _ I did not allow that thought to happen, go away now please. _ Apparently, my momentary distraction gives him enough time to snag my plate and head off to the sink, so I follow a bit sheepishly, setting my glass next to his.

 

“Thanks,” I barely force the word through my lips before I’m spun around and headed upstairs again.  _ Jesus, that was a lot to deal with.  _ My head hurts trying to comprehend everything that just happened, everything that was said and  _ wasn’t _ said, and I take a hard turn into the art room - I need to focus on anything that  _ isn’t _ Phil.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Which is exactly  _ not _ what happens, because four hours and twice as many sketches later, and all I can think of is the way his face lights up when he speaks, the arch of his eyebrows when he’s surprised, the feeling of his hand in mine - my artwork reflects it: around me are scattered several pages with half-finished drawings, all Phil but all _ not quite right _ . The one I’m currently working on is close, but  _ something  _ is missing - a spark, I think, but I’m not sure where it comes from, how to put it down on paper. I sigh, pushing the page aside and standing.

 

I step across the room carefully, though my feet know exactly where the hardwood floor is and where the other discarded sketches and bits of sea glass are. The light from the moon outside the window is hardly enough to draw by, especially with the way I’ve covered half the pane in semi-decent art, but something about turning the light on right now feels too  _ significant. _ As if, somehow, I can hide this new fascination in the silvery darkness, under the stars and the night sky, and it’ll stay here and never emerge from this room. My hand lingers on the edge of a blank paper, and I stare for a full thirty seconds before deciding to continue - if this is to be my hidden passion, then I may as well go at it full force. Maybe that’ll prevent it from returning when the sun rises.

 

\---------------------------

 

A horrendous creaking echoes around in my head, though objectively I can tell it’s quite a soft sound. I’m barely awake, and every joint and muscle in my body feels stretched out of place - I would  _ really _ rather not continue to become more aware. Words invade my ears, though my brain refuses to translate the sound to meaning, so I grumble an equally incoherent response.

 

“Dan, you’re laying on the floor.” Words finally arrange themselves in my groggy head, starting to form some sentences. “That  _ can’t _ be comfortable,” now I recognize the  _ voice _ accompanying those words.  _ Phil _ . 

 

“Ugh, what?” I manage, blinking for a moment against the bright light I’ve decided to allow to flood from the room into my eyes -  _ a terrible decision, really _ . Details from the night before rush back in a tidal wave, then, and I sit up abruptly. “Ah, shit, what are you…” at which point,  _ more _ details come back to me - namely, the pages and pages of sketches I’m currently sprawled across. I fumble for a moment, trying to hide the most visible one beneath my arm.  _ Nonononono Phil isn’t supposed to see this, I don’t want him to think I’m a creeper or a weirdo or... _ “Right, can you just...leave?”

 

I clench my jaw, hoping I look much angrier than I currently feel - really, the only thing I  _ can _ feel is white-hot embarrassment tingling from my toes up through my ears, and I  _ swear to god if he doesn’t leave soon I’m going to explode _ . He doesn’t even fucking  _ move _ , only agreeing to leave if I’ll wrap the burn on his hand later. The burn which I suddenly remember  _ I’m _ the cause of, and - if at all possible - my face flushes even hotter. I nod, hoping he’ll just  _ get out already because the longer you’re here the more likely you’ll see this art and laugh at me and- _

 

“Just let me know when you’re able to help. Thanks!” He turns with a soft smile, and I’m hit with an overwhelming urge to capture it, put it down on paper.  _ There’s that spark again, that’s what I can’t quite get right _ . Somehow, with a single smile, he’s got me fully distracted again, my embarrassment just tossed out the window and forgotten.

 

He’s long gone by the time I manage to stand - stiffly, and  _ very _ much regretting that I didn’t move to my bed at some point in the night - and make my way to my room. I go through three different shirts before I decide on a simple black one, cursing under my breath at my self-consciousness.  _ It’s not like he gives two shits what I’m wearing _ . I opt to keep my sweatpants on, though, because I really can’t be bothered to put on jeans just yet - it’s a compromise that my anxiety allows, because I’m still convinced Phil would rather have nothing to do with me.

 

I barely manage staggered steps downstairs; my discomfort must be pretty obvious, because Phil doesn’t say a word, just points at the full coffee mug and lets me wallow in my pain. I take a few sips of the burning liquid, simultaneously scalding and soothing, before he decides to speak up.  _ I get the feeling he doesn’t like silence much. _ I’d smirk if I had the mental energy for it.

 

“So...how’d you end up sleeping on the floor of that...uh, art room?” My mood immediately flips, and I’d much rather grimace instead. Or bolt from the room. But neither happens, and I’m left with a slight downward tug of one cheek and a deer-in-headlights wide-eyed stare.  _ No, I definitely do  _ not _ want to talk about this... _ I inhale as steadily as I can manage before responding.

 

“Fell asleep drawing,”  _ nonchalance, nonchalance, nonchalance, _ I chant it like a prayer, even going so far as to shrug before taking a hopefully-steadying sip of coffee.

 

“Drawing what?” In place of a normal sip, of course, I end up breathing half the coffee into my fucking  _ lungs _ , because  _ how the fuck do I say ‘Oh, I was drawing  _ you _ , because you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever seen and every time I look at you, I want to capture that and hang it on a wall, you could inspire masterpieces. You  _ are _ a masterpiece.’ _ I feign my cough for a few seconds longer than necessary, hoping to reign in my wayward thoughts.  _ Now is not the time _ . Desperate for distraction, for anything else we can focus on, I catch a glimpse of his hand.

 

“You needed me to wrap your hand, right?” I abandon my coffee and stand quickly, though my joints protest, and grab the bandages from where Phil’s set them on the counter. He offers his hand silently, and I try to think about anything  _ except  _ how soft it is in mine, anything  _ except _ how long and almost delicate his fingers look, anything  _ except _ the exact lines I’d use to bring that hand to life on a piece of paper.

 

I think so hard, in fact, about anything  _ except _ Phil’s hand that I find my lips pursed in furious concentration; I smooth out my features before stepping away. He’s turning his hand over, checking I’ve done a decent job of wrapping, so I take the distraction as an easy escape route and nearly sprint up the stairs - I almost trip on the last step when I hear his ‘thanks’ follow me.

 

_ I need to not be here, I need to leave and clear my head, I need to go to the beach. _ The thoughts come in increasing order of specificity as I head down the hall, and I burst into my room with purpose; the moment my favorite pair of jeans - well, not  _ favorite _ , but most comfortable - replaces my sweatpants and I’ve got my worn bag slung over a shoulder, I’m out the side door and descending the staircase. Comforting metallic clangs sound under my shoes with each step, and I almost forget my current living arrangements - specifically  _ the person who might be able to see me _ \- until I’m at the gate leading down to the beach.

 

_ He’s likely not even there, and even if he were, it’s not like he’d be watching me. Why would he care? _ I dare a glance back, almost frightened when bright blue eyes meet mine through the wall of windows.  _ Fucking windows, why does this have to be the best way to get down to the beach? _ I can feel my heartbeat in my palms, frozen on the metal grate - as expected, though, Phil simply turns away, settling back on the couch.  _ See, he doesn’t care. _ The momentary spike of relief dissolves into disappointment once I shut the gate behind me. Fortunately, the worn wood beneath my palm sends a familiar comfort up through my hand and arm as I descend, and the tingling at the base of my neck pushes back any sadness.

 

Something about the ocean is such a solace - it’s always changing, always new and different, but it’s somehow also a source of constancy; if I walk out of the house tomorrow, I may not be able to predict exactly what it’ll look like, but I  _ know _ it’ll be there. It’s also the only thing that makes me feel  _ connected _ \- everyone finds the ocean beautiful; for all my differences, for all the times I feel so separate from the world, the sea is this ribbon that ties me to others. It reminds me that I’m not alone, even if it’s in the smallest way.

 

I let these thoughts bubble up in my throat as I walk, soft crashing of waves in my ears mingling with all the words I’d love to say - to  _ anyone _ . But people don’t want to hear me talk, they always think there’s something  _ off _ about me. So I keep those thoughts to myself, even next to the ocean. 

 

My art, it’s my way of sharing that connection - people understand  _ art _ , somehow, when they can’t understand words. So I draw the ocean, and sell those pictures (though I’m not sure why anyone would buy them, they’re always just a notch below what I hope they’ll look like), and I collect sea glass - that’s more for myself, though I do sell it to those looking to make their own artwork. To me, it’s like the ocean has taken something sharp, something man-made and societally conforming, and turned it into something of its own, a product of the sea; it’s a small, colorful reminder of that comfort, of everything I respect about the ocean.

 

_ Listen to yourself, talking about the sea like it’s a person you admire.  _ I frown, refocusing on the scenery around me - I’m close to the cave, now, though I didn’t come to draw.  _ Perhaps another day. _ This is the best location to find sea glass, as it tends to wash up during high tide and get caught and slowed by the rocks. I lose myself in the search, starting close to the edges of the water and working my way up toward the roadside - I’m likely to find more up there, where the rocks protrude, but it’s satisfying to save that stretch of the beach for the end of my search.

 

My bag is half-full when I bother looking up again - my neck is  _ not _ agreeing with all the haunching I’ve done, given how poorly I slept on it last night. But the pain isn’t enough to stop me, and I’m about to resume my search when an uncomfortably cold drop of water hits my head and rolls down my scalp. In a flash, everything comes into crystal-clear focus - and I do mean a  _ literal fucking flash _ , because a streak of lightning splits the sky in half, and my muddled observations manage to piece themselves together.

 

_ It’s a storm.  _ I blink. The _ fucking storm!  _ If I could shout in my head, I’d be screaming, because we’ve been seeing weather alerts for this one for almost a week now.  _ How the fuck did I forget this? Oh, right, a  _ different _ kind of storm rolled in just yesterday... _ The deep rumble of thunder spurs me into action, and I nearly trip when my shoes sink into the sand under my feet - the rain’s coming in full force now, drenching the sleeves of my shirt and turning the beach into a squishy mess. 

 

I can barely run in the  _ best _ of circumstances, let alone in the middle of a storm, but I do my best, sloshing back toward the house as the wind whips angry droplets up and into my face, my eyes. If I hadn’t been wet and terrified, I might look off toward the ocean - the view during a storm has always been my favorite, with dark gray thunderheads and off-black waves accented by spurs of white at the tips.  _ Now is  _ not _ the time _ . I shove everything out of my head, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other.

 

It takes  _ years _ to get back to the staircase, which is as thoroughly soaked as I am. My free hand has nearly frozen, though I’d shoved it in my pocket early on, and it’s a battle of wills just to convince it to grip the railing.  _ Look, I know you don’t like this, _ I decide to ignore the fact that I’m literally talking to my own hand,  _ but if you don’t hold on like your life depends on it, you might actually die. Because your life  _ does _ depend on it. _ I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the staircase ahead of me, despite the water clouding my vision, because that view  _ sure as fuck _ beats the one off to my left.  _ I don’t need another reminder of just how dead I’ll be if I slip now, thanks. _

 

After the twelfth - thirteenth? - step, I catch sight of a figure moving down the stairs toward me.  _ Well, this is it, Death has come for me, I’m about to fall off the side and into the cliffs below. Would they even find my body, after a storm like this? Would they even care to try? _ I exhale, resigned, and blink a few times to clear my vision. I should at least be able to  _ see  _ in my last moments.

 

_ Oh. _ My vision  _ does _ clear, then, and my brain must be as frozen as the rest of me, because it takes a solid ten seconds to form the next thought.  _ They sent an angel for me. _ And another ten before it clicks, and I’m suddenly shouting.

 

“ _ Phil! Phil! _ ” I’ve no idea if he can actually hear me, the wind is probably whipping my words away the moment they leave my lips, but  _ oh my god Phil’s out here and he’s coming for me and was he  _ looking _ for me and oh my god _ . I push onward, some measure of strength renewed at the sight of Phil - though he’s nearly as dripping and shivering as I am by the time he reaches me. If I had any common sense to do so, I might pull away or protest when he wraps an arm around my waist, but the modicum of warmth and support is too alluring, I need it far too desperately.

 

I think it finally hits me just how  _ close _ he is when we’re most of the way to the top - to be fair, I’m frozen to the core, shaking, and surrounded by one of the worst storms the island’s seen in months - because my foot comes down hard and fast on the edge of a stair and slips, nearly sending us both down the side of the cliff. _ Oh god, oh fuck, focus on Phil later, just focus on not dying first _ . My brain pulls itself together, and  _ Phil _ pulls me closer to him, and we manage to get into the house without any more incidents.

 

At which point I collapse onto the ground, because my legs have decided they’re done for the day.  _ Fair enough. _ A lethargic haze settles over everything: I recognize that Phil’s left, and my eyes follow his progress toward the stairs before he disappears, and I have enough energy to think that  _ maybe he should come back, I quite liked having him so close _ . 

 

Shock must’ve set in, I decide, because I’m still not sure I’m thinking straight when Phil returns with towels and blankets - he tugs gently at my bag, and I would fight him if I had any strength left.  _ Don’t steal my piece of the ocean, it belongs to me. The sea gave it to me. _ But his face looks so  _ soft _ and I decide that maybe the ocean wanted him to have it, too, if it brought him to me. I don’t move when he starts drying me off, though the action ruffles my soaked hair, and I’d really like to run a hand through it to fix it.  _ Or maybe, _ I think as he wraps a blanket around my shoulders,  _ I’d like to run a hand through his hair. That would be nice, probably. _

 

“F-fire,” it takes a whole thirty seconds to convince my lips to work, and they botch the job. My eyeballs work well enough, though, and I catch his eye before looking over to the fireplace - despite the relative warmth of the house, I’m still overwhelmingly icy. In the next moment, Phil’s turned on the fire and I’m doing my best to stand - it’s not going well. Sore joints and frozen limbs wage war against me, and I stumble into the wall for support.

 

“Let me help,” arms wrap my waist again, pulling me from the wall, and  _ oh, this is nice _ . I can actually sort of walk, with Phil beside me, and I ride the wave of movement all the way to the fire. I collapse in front of the warmth, letting the heat soothe the chill that’s settled into my skin. Phil disappears, and I almost ask him to come back, but I can’t bring myself to put forth the effort.

 

Fortunately, I don’t have to, because he returns and hands me a warm mug of tea. The fire’s seeped into my hands, enough that I’m able to accept it from him without fumbling and spilling it everywhere - as he sits beside me, I allow myself a moment to study him: he’s soaked through, hair in semi-dried strands around his forehead. I catch a glimpse of a few wayward bits stuck up at the back of his head before he turns toward me, and I rush to avert my gaze before he can notice.  _ I want to draw that later,  _ I decide, committing the disheveled look to memory as best I can.

 

“What were you out there for?” His voice is... _ incredibly _ soft, unexpectedly so, but not patronizing; I don’t get the feeling that he’s about to chastise me, more that he’s just honestly curious.

 

“Collecting,” it feels strange to simply  _ answer _ instead of deflecting, but Phil’s doing it again, whatever he does that makes me  _ want _ to respond. I look toward the door, where Phil’s discarded my bag. “Sea glass,” I add, not because he asked but because I actually  _ wanted _ to tell him. I try not to think too hard about that.

 

He points at the bag, and I nod my confirmation. My heart catches in my throat when he actually  _ gets up _ and goes over to it, opens it,  _ comments _ on it. Calls it  _ pretty _ . Something about the interaction feels too close, too intimate,  _ too much _ , and I might be hyperventilating. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, and I stand too quickly. Around the muffled thudding, I think I hear Phil’s voice, I think I hear concern, and I mumble a quick ‘fine’ before half-stumbling over to the stairs and making my way up.

 

_ Oh my god, why... _ If shock had set in when we got back inside, panic is setting in now. And it isn’t even  _ reasonable _ panic, because something about Phil looking at the sea glass, something about the way he treated me - I don’t know how to  _ handle _ being that close to someone. I don’t know if I  _ want _ to.

 

_ Of course I do. _ Somehow, in all the jumbled thoughts racing around my head, this one comes in crystal clear. I follow it all the way back to my room, discarding the damp blanket and heading to the bathroom. Once the shower water is scalding, I step in and let the tingling burn of hot water against cold skin distract me, calm me. 

 

When I finally manage to step out, pruney and pink-skinned, I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion.  _ So many waves today, I didn’t expect to be the ocean. _ I collapse into bed, tugging at the duvet until I’m properly covered. I don’t know what this whole deal with Phil is, but he’s a storm in a calm bay, and the only thing I’m confident of is that I’d like to stay in this storm for a while.

 

\------------------------------

 

An unusually loud rumble of thunder wakes me - remarkable, given how well-insulated my room is. The soft reddish glow of the clock on my bedside table says it’s morning, though I’d never have guessed; there’s no hint of sun around the edges of my covered windows.  _ Yeah, I always think this whole insulation thing is bloody inconvenient until one of these storms rolls in. _ I stretch, glad to find my limbs aren’t too incredibly sore from all of yesterday’s events.  _ Jesus, what a fucking day… _

 

I take my time waking up fully, meandering downstairs almost half an hour later; I can’t put my finger on it, but _something_ feels like it’s settled in my chest. It’s a weight, but not an uncomfortable one - it’s almost _pleasant._ _Much like the smell of coffee…_

 

“Good morning!” The forced brightness grates against my ears, and it only takes a glance at Phil to see why he sounds that way: his eyes are red-rimmed, accented with purple bags, and the smile he’s put on barely reaches the edges of his cheeks.

 

“Is it?” I quip, then fight the urge to slap my hand across my mouth.  _ Who am I, and what have I done with Dan? _ I wonder, because when did I decide to start  _ joking _ with Phil? Clearly, I was struck by lightning last night and it rearranged my brain cells - but he’s  _ laughing _ , and the smallest smile tugs at my cheek. _ What happened to aloof, disinterested Dan? _ But I made him  _ laugh _ , properly  _ laugh _ \- when it devolves into a giggle, I notice it again: that little spark, maybe behind his eyes, that lights up  _ everything _ . His tongue is poking through his teeth, and it’s such a unique and unexpected expression that my eyes grab every detail and lock them all away in my head.  _ Later. I’ll draw that later _ . 

 

Before he can catch me staring, I step fully into the kitchen, focused on finding some breakfast - I’d slept so early last night that I really didn’t eat much. Phil comments behind me, but I’m trying so hard to act distracted that I don’t really hear him. When I pull open the fridge, my eyes go wide.

 

“Pancakes?” I ask, staring between the  _ massive _ stack wrapped up on the shelf and the increasingly intriguing man as he rambles about why he made them. “That’s a lot of pancakes,” I observe, though the wonder in my voice has very little to do with the actual quantity of pancakes.  _ He...made me food, for no other reason than he just…cared. He thought I might get hungry.  _ I’m not entirely sure what to do with that information, though, so I fall back on pure manners. “Do you want some?” I offer, catching his nod from the corner of my eye.

 

I reheat the pancakes fully on autopilot; my brain is still frazzled trying to process that Phil went out of his way to do something nice for me, just  _ because _ . Neither of us speaks, and I set our plates down and dig into my own. He offers to grab some toppings, but I refuse, mouth full of food, and we settle into a bout of silence, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of thunder.

 

“ _ How _ do you sleep with that?”  _ He really can’t stand silence, can he? _ I’m tempted to chuckle until I make the connection between his slight jump and the exhaustion scrawled across his features. Though he doesn’t look  _ upset _ , I suddenly feel like an atrocious host, and I actually bring my hand to my head in embarrassment.

 

“Oh! Your room probably gets a lot of the storm, doesn’t it?”  _ Of course it does, he’s in the fucking turret tower, it’s probably no better than trying to sleep out on the porch. _ Before I can think better of it, I make the offer. “Sorry, you can, uh, sleep in my room tonight, if you want?”  _ No, no no no, backtrack, no. _ I immediately regret it because I  _ don’t want him in my personal space like that _ , no matter how good a host I want to be.  _ No matter how much I want him to feel safe here. _

 

He rejects it, and my shoulders slump just a bit - I almost just accept it, until I notice that he slept on the couch last night.  _ He didn’t even sleep in the turret tower, and he looks  _ that  _ exhausted. _ My resolve flips on its head, and I push the offer again. “My room is pretty well-insulated, so you can take my bed and I’ll crash on the floor.”  _ Maybe it’ll be okay if I’m still in there, I can make sure my room stays  _ mine _.  _

 

I give him no chance to argue, standing and washing off my empty plate.  _ If I let him sleep anywhere else, it’ll be my fault when he’s exhausted again. I want to see him smile, for real. _ I shake my head, collecting my bag of sea glass and climbing the stairs.  _ No, it’s not that - a good host wouldn’t want their guest to sleep poorly, that’s all. _

 

I spend the rest of the morning sorting glass, both my new acquisitions and about half the stuff I’ve got scattered around the art room - I’m so focused, in fact, that I forget all about Phil until I decide to pop into the kitchen for a snack. At the bottom of the staircase, I get a surge of courage and glance up at him - he’s sat in the lounge on his laptop, and we lock eyes for half a second.

 

Then mine are back on the floor, and I turn to prevent him from seeing the blush crawling up my cheeks. _ Why am I blushing? It’s not like... _ I nearly drop the box as I pull it from the pantry, setting it heavily on the counter.  _ I am so beyond fucked, shit shit shit, I think I  _ like  _ him. Fucking... _ I grab an energy bar, not even bothering to see which flavor, and nearly trip over my feet racing back up the stairs.

 

I tear into the bar, because chewing something means I don’t have to use my head for a bit. I take the time between bites to pack the sea glass into my bags for tomorrow, then pull down a few of my decent sketches and tuck them into my portfolio. I shove the final bite in my mouth, tossing the wrapper in the trash, then make my way over to the small pile of red sea glass. I know I’ll need it for my sculpture, but I only have a bit left - it all goes into one of the inner pockets of my bag anyway.  _ Surely I’ll find more soon. _ A small grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

 

Satisfied that I’m ready for the market tomorrow, my mind decides to return its attention to the issue I’ve been studiously ignoring.  _ Phil _ . Fucking hell, I have a  _ crush _ . I drag my hands down my face, allowing myself a small groan.  _ I did not ask for this, I did not give my heart permission, this is not okay _ . In some absurd attempt to distract myself, I flop down on the floor and pull my charcoal and paper over. Maybe I’m just... _ intrigued _ , I reason - I want to  _ draw _ him, not-

 

_ Nope, focus, just draw _ . So I do, and a single page turns into three; some are small doodles and rough outlines while others are full-blown profiles. I remember his laugh, followed by that adorable - _ not adorable _ \- giggle, and I drag a fresh page over, pushing the previous aside.  _ This one _ , I decide,  _ this one is important.  _ So I take extra care with the lines, only adding a shade here or there if I’m completely certain. I find myself caught up in that memory, like a mini timeline loop that’s played over and over in my head, and I try to capture both the full laughter before and the soft, calm happiness afterward.

 

_ There, that’s it, that spark, _ I pull back from the page - I’m not sure how I managed it, but there it is.  _ He looks- _

 

My train of thought is interrupted by a particularly bright flash from the half-covered window, followed by a darkness that swallows the picture in front of me entirely. Then the lights are back on, but I sigh and set the sketch aside - I can’t work in pitch blackness, and with a storm like this, I’ve no doubt the electricity will go out again soon. 

 

By the time I get to my room, the lights have blinked out.  _ Couldn’t have waited two more minutes for me to get some candles going? _ I curse as my pinky toe hits the edge of the bed frame, then fumble around my desk for a moment before locating the half-used candles. The matches are another story, hidden in the back of the top drawer. 

 

Everything’s ten times easier once I’ve got the first candle lit, and I light the other two quickly. One goes on my bedside table, one on the desk, the last by the window.  _ Maybe now I can get back to...oh. _ I’d fully intended to get back to drawing, until I remember the subject of those drawings.  _ Who’s probably stumbling around in the dark downstairs _ . 

 

_ And who’s going to be sleeping in here tonight. _ I lean heavily on my desk, staring at the flickering flame.  _ I’ve never had to share a room with someone before. Let alone someone I have a crush on _ . But I did say I’d be sleeping on the floor, and I know I won’t be falling asleep on such a hard surface, so I drag some extra blankets and pillows from my wardrobe and toss them unceremoniously near the window.

 

Which, of course, sends the curtains fluttering into the candle. I lunge at the stupid thing, pulling it back from the fabric as I stumble into the wall, but I’ve managed to stay upright and generally not catch anything on fire, so I count it as a victory.

 

I’m just setting the offending candle back on the desk, where it’ll cause less harm, when I hear Phil call to me from downstairs.  _ Oh, shit, he’s probably still in the dark down there, shit. _ I race toward the door, somehow managing  _ yet again _ to stub my toe, and I curse my lack of coordination and its accomplice, the stupid darkness.

 

“You okay?” Phil’s voice echoes against the walls, and I bite my lip.  _ Nope, not only am I now actually in  _ pain _ , but I’m about to give up the safety of my room so you can sleep. Oh, and I might be majorly pining after you, there’s that too. _ The words come out as a soft ‘I’m fine’, and I make it to the end of the hall before he asks about candles.

 

_ You absolute buffoon, why didn’t you take a candle with you? _ I retrace my steps more carefully, snagging one of the candles from the desk and making my way to the top of the stairs.

 

“Yeah, there are a few in my room. Do you want to just come up now, since you’ll be sleeping there anyway?” The mostly-darkness is suddenly my best friend as I feel the blush crawl up my collarbone, my neck, and settle on my cheeks.  _ He’s going to be in my room all night. _ A quick zing - either thrill or terror - flies through me when he starts to climb, and I let it spur me back toward my room. 

 

Unsure of what else to do, I return the candle to its spot on the desk and drop down to the pile of pillows and blankets. Though it must look horribly awkward, I’m sat facing the window because staring at Phil and having him stare right back at me would be absolutely  _ mortifying _ .  _ What if he has no feelings for me at all? What if this is entirely one-sided, and he can see it when he looks at me, and then what would happen?  _ I’ve naturally chosen the most uncomfortable position to sit in, half my ass on a pillow and the other half on just a blanket, so I scoot over fully to the pillow and draw my knees up to my chest.  _ Maybe just...ignore me, go to bed, so I don’t have to keep thinking...this is getting exhausting. _

 

It takes a force of willpower I didn’t know I possessed not to gasp when a warm body joins me on my makeshift floor-bed. Phil’s arm is so close to mine that I can feel a prickling heat between us, and I’m suddenly racking my brain for anything -  _ anything _ \- to say to keep my mind off him, to keep him from noticing how tense I am. 

 

I’m thanking every deity on heaven and earth when a flash of lightning startles me out of my freak-out session, gives me something safe to talk about.

 

“See, best room to be in, when it’s storming.” I focus as intently as possible on the storm, the soft echoes of thunder that manage to break through the well-insulated walls.  _ Do not think about Phil, do not think about how close he is, do not think about what would happen if he  _ did  _ have feelings for you, do not think about what would happen if you leaned over and-  _ Phil bumps my shoulder, and I spin toward him.  _ I swear to god if you can read minds, Phil, I’m going to- _

 

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, you know,” I frown.  _ If you can read minds, I’m going to actually kill you in your sleep for invading my privacy. _ I shout the words into my head, just to be on the safe side, before considering his assertion. And the smirk that accompanies it.

 

“Well  _ I’m _ not letting  _ you _ sleep on the floor,” I retort, “and it’s  _ my _ house, so  _ my _ rules, plus! You’re the guest, so you get the bed.” I am again  _ immensely _ glad for so little lighting, because his smirk has turned to a full grin, and I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me or not. I do my best to force my face into something angry, but it seems to only encourage his smile.  _ Quit that, I can’t focus with you looking like that. _

 

“Well  _ I’m _ the guest,” I immediately pout, because I know exactly where this is going, “and as a good host, you have to do what I say,” he actually  _ sticks his tongue out _ , and I’m reminded of the drawing I just finished.  _ How does he look so alive all the time? Even when he’s exhausted. Or acting like a child _ . I cross my arms because I can’t think of a good argument.  _ At least he wasn’t making fun of me. _

 

_ Ugh, if you can read my mind, quit  _ grinning _ like that _ . I don’t know why I think that’ll work, I don’t even  _ believe _ in anything supernatural, but he’s still smiling, and I end up pursing my lips to fight off the laugh bubbling in my chest.  _ This isn’t funny! He won, and I’m not getting what I want. _ But  _ he’s  _ started laughing, fully, and I can’t hold it back anymore. 

 

_ It feels good to laugh. Thank you. _ I know he can’t hear me, but I’m suddenly wishing he could. I’m very good at talking in my head, to myself. Not so good at talking aloud. I try, though, and he seems to appreciate my casual commentary - not that I can even remember what I just said, with the way his eyes are fixed on me.  _ If I ever drew with colors, your eyes would be a kaleidoscope. I would draw with colors for you. _

 

I take a deep breath, trying to settle myself, trying to catch my heart and put it back where it belongs.  _ He probably makes everyone laugh like that. _ It’s a sobering thought, and I hold onto it - my grin fades along with the lightness in my chest, and I stop staring into Phil’s eyes.  _ I don’t want to think about you if you don’t think about me like that. _

 

I resign to taking the bed, because he did win, and lock myself into the bathroom. I can barely see my reflection in the mirror, just a hint of orangey-yellow glow from the candle as I set it beside the sink, but heave a sigh of relief when I notice it’s all but impossible to see the flush in my cheeks.  _ No more of this. Quit thinking of him like this.  _ I give myself a kind of reverse pep-talk, only emerging once I’ve cooled my face with icy water and I’m feeling far more under control.

 

Phil’s not in the room, but the door is open and I hear water running in the guest bathroom. Then shut off. Then footsteps sound in the hall. I blow out the candles in quick succession, then curl up under the covers. A moment later, soft creaking sounds; Phil must be stood at the door, and he seems to pause - I wouldn’t know, I’ve closed my eyes and  _ wow I can’t believe I’m pretending to sleep just to avoid any more possibly awkward encounters _ . I’d scoff at myself if it wouldn’t give me away.

 

Unfortunately, Phil’s return has me absolutely wired now, and I’m noticing every slight shift as he rearranges on the pillow pile on the floor. And there’s a  _ lot  _ of shifting going on.  _ I am the worst host in the history of hosting, he’s clearly uncomfortable and I’m just laying here pretending to be asleep. _

 

“This is stupid,” my voice sounds immensely loud in the quiet of the room, and I sit up and cross my arms. As if somehow that’ll make this less awkward.

 

“What’s stupid?”  _ Is he actually thick or just messing with me? _ I can feel my barely-cooled face flushing again.

 

“You’re not comfortable, and I can’t sleep because I’m being a bad host.”  _ Can you just...swap with me already?  _ Unfortunately, I’m only confirming my theory that Phil  _ can’t _ read my mind, because he just keeps going on about not letting me sleep on the floor. 

 

_ We could... _ the idea floats into my head without warning, and I almost dismiss it. But maybe... _ it might give me an idea of how he feels… _ if he’s just being nice because he’s a good person,  _ surely _ he won’t agree to this.

 

“ _ Just come sleep in the bed _ ,” if I had any ability to do so, I’d snatch the words out of the air and shove them back down my throat because  _ I did not just say that I did not just say that I did not just say that _ . But Phil’s not put off - at least he isn’t acting like it, but…

 

“I told you I won’t let you sleep on the floor.”  _ Is he just fucking with me now? Or is he serious? _ Something between anger and annoyance floods into my head, just enough to give me some extra courage.

 

“Yeah,” I’m surprised at my steady tone, “I’ll stay here and you just come sleep on the other side,” I’m shocked to find I’m not embarrassed, I just want him to quit  _ beating around the fucking bush _ .  _ Do you like me or not?  _ Well, really, the question is ‘ _ are you just being polite or could you potentially be interested? _ ’ It feels like an important distinction. 

 

Every nerve in my body goes haywire when he actually stands up, and I have to remember to shuffle over, make room for him. _Oh. Fuck. This is actually happening._ _I guess that answers that question._ As his head hits the pillow, I bite my lip. Sparks are crackling all across my skin, and I’m struck by the fact that I actually want to _say_ something. _Nobody makes me want to talk, not like this._

 

_ Why are you different? Why do I like you? Do you like me? Why do I want to draw you? Why can’t I get you out of my head? Why is this happening? Is this okay? _ The last question is the only one I manage to say, but he says it is and then we’re saying good night and I’m trying to think about anything  _ except  _ him - it’s going very poorly. I take a few deep breaths, though they’re fast and uneven, then try to picture how I’d draw him - it would be the moment he’d been staring at me, before, by the window. _ I think I could do it, capture that spark again, if I just added a line here, a shadow from the candle under… _

 

\------------------------

 

My eyes fly open and I inhale sharply - the pillow feels strange under my shoulder, and I don’t remember-

 

_ Fuckfuckfuck please tell me I’m still dreaming, this is not real. _ I squeeze my eyes shut, then pull them open again, but I’m still pressed against Phil, everything from my head down to my legs tucked against his side.  _ Okay, this is okay, it’s fine, he’s still asleep. _ I watch the rise and fall of his chest, perfectly even  _ and perfect and... _ I pull back farther, and cool air rushes in between us.  _ Stop that, you said you’d sleep on opposite sides of the bed. _ But it’s perfectly reasonable we might’ve just...done that after falling asleep, right? Because I sure as hell don’t  _ remember  _ it.

 

A very large piece of me is tempted to lean back in, to curl into him again and pretend to sleep a while longer -  _ I could, it would be so easy _ \- but he shifts and the moment is broken. I do my best to crawl off my side of the bed without waking him, and I must do a decent job - he’s still breathing deeply by the time I tug on my jeans and a sweater and slip on my shoes. 

 

I leave the room to grab my bag, then return and scrawl a quick note that I’ll be back later - then I’m out the door, taking soft steps down the metal staircase. The air around me is heavy and wet, but the clouds above me are a mix of pale gray and icy blue - nothing foreboding, no indication I might get stuck out in another storm.

 

As I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize that  _ technically _ I could’ve just left through the door downstairs - I give it a passing glance on my way to the gate - but, for some reason, I guess I’d hoped Phil would hear me leave and wake up. Maybe offer to come with me. I lose myself in a hazy daydream as I descend the half-dry wooden stairs to the beach.

 

I don’t have much intention of collecting sea glass this morning - it’ll likely all have been swept away with the rain - but I need some time away from the house, the room, the  _ Phil _ , to just think.  _ You know what they say, distance... _ I frown, because my first thought is ‘ _ distance makes the heart grow fonder _ ’.  _ That is not why I’m out here. _

 

As I walk, my mind flip-flops between the sun that’s slowly dissolving the smattering of clouds above me and the...well, the  _ figurative  _ sun that seems to be doing the same thing to my own clouds.  _ Jesus, I sound like a fucking poet. Just because Phil’s as bright as the sun, that doesn’t mean I have to go about making sappy metaphors. _ I can’t argue that it isn’t unnervingly accurate, though.  _ Shit, I’m so screwed.  _

 

I kick at a half-buried scrap of driftwood, stumbling when it doesn’t give.  _ Right, so I’m clearly head-over-heels for this guy I barely know. Now what the fuck am I supposed to  _ do _ about it? _ I turn that over in my head for another ten minutes, scanning the beach halfheartedly for any spots of color. I don’t find any - nor do I find any solution to my current predicament.

 

In a huff, I head back, letting the familiarity of going home comfort me.  _ Phil’s there, and probably already awake. _ I let my thoughts expand a little, encompassing the entirety of my day: the market will have started by now, though I usually don’t arrive til the afternoon anyway.  _ Maybe... _ common sense says that spending time with someone is a good way to get to know them. _ Not that I’d know. _ I frown, marching up the stairs and grumbling to myself when the thump of shoes against wood comes back muffled and unsatisfying. 

 

As soon as I close the gate behind me, I catch a glimpse of Phil sat in the kitchen - he’s staring intently at his laptop, fingers tapping at keys. His lips are tugged down, but his face speaks of concentration, not frustration or disappointment. We’re in a kind of bubble, where he’s still watching his screen and I can’t force myself to keep walking, so I just stare for a bit longer.  _ I’m going to do it. I’m going to invite him to come with me.  _ I’m afraid to let myself think any farther ahead than that, shoving all my social anxiety back into a little corner of my brain.  _ I can do this. _

 

I take purposeful steps across the porch and to the door, pushing it open with more force than I really mean to. Phil’s head flies up as I step inside, and we lock eyes.  _ What was I going to do again? _ I blink, grateful that I’ve managed to break the sight of the oceans in Phil’s eyes staring at me. 

 

“Hi,” I ride the tail end of the wave of confidence long enough to get out a single word. Then I’m holding my breath because  _ he isn’t talking and oh god what if- _ I’m suddenly reminded of the... _ compromising _ position I woke up in this morning. _ Oh fuck, what if I did that while I was asleep and he was awake and he hates me for it and oh god- _

 

“Hi,” it’s just a simple word, but there’s no malice, no annoyance. I breathe out, slowly, then set my empty bag down on the table; his not-irritated tone bolsters my courage.  _ Come on, use your words, you can do this. _ I don’t make eye contact, because that would be  _ too much _ , but  _ surely _ I can manage this _. _

 

“I, uh, I’m going into town today, if you want to come,” I pass him as casually as possible, though my stomach’s already churning - but I can’t let the embarrassment show, because how  _ humiliating _ would that be? I’m already in the kitchen when I realize I have no idea why I’m here, so I fumble with the coffee maker, setting it to reheat what’s left in the pot as my thoughts tumble around each other.  _ He’s going to say no, this was a terrible idea, why did I- _

 

“Sure, yeah! I’d love to go,” his voice is exceptionally chipper, even for him, but it’s more the  _ meaning _ of his response that catches me off guard.  _ He actually...wants to come? _ Some semi-rational part of my brain crosses its arms at me, tilting its head and raising an eyebrow:  _ ‘really, he’s done nothing to warrant that surprise,’ _ it reminds me, and I chew at my lip - true, he’s yet to reject an offer I made that puts us together. 

 

I pour a cup of hot coffee, then grab my bag from the table; I’m not sure how I should feel about the bubbly warmth in my chest, but I don’t think I’ll really need the coffee at this point. 

 

“I’ll let you know when I’m leaving,” I toss the words over my shoulder, aiming for a neutral tone, but I think it comes off sour - I’m still too afraid to meet his gaze because  _ fuck _ if I wouldn’t just get lost in it right now. 

 

I don’t let myself stop, think, even  _ breathe _ until I’m safely locked in my art room - the coffee is set on the corner table to be forgotten; I’m already buzzing and wide awake. My empty bag is discarded alongside it, and I flit around the room to collect all my various other bags for the market. On impulse, or maybe because I’m in a particularly good mood -  _ can’t imagine why that is _ \- I pull a few more drawings from the walls and add them to my portfolio bag.  _ They’re good, I don’t know why I didn’t pick them before. _

 

It takes ten minutes to get the ear-splitting grin on my face under control, and another five just to stop bouncing on my toes - anticipation races through my blood, which isn’t unusual for a market day, but it’s the undertone of  _ excitement _ that has me off balance. I’m glancing at the door for the twelfth time in the past three minutes when I finally decide to head downstairs. 

 

Everything feels normal, but skewed: I’m loaded down with bags - nothing new there - but I’m practically sprinting to the end of the hall, and my rubber-soled shoes are the only things preventing a disastrous tumble down the staircase as I descend in a rush. Phil’s still in the kitchen, but he’s already making his way over. I drop my eyes to the floor as he joins me and we head to the door.

 

“Can I help with anything?” His voice is clear, loud in the wake of the staticky silence I’ve spent the last twenty minutes immersed in. I shake my head, pushing outside ahead of him. A part of me is tempted to say something - point out that I’m more than capable of doing this myself - but the reality is that the weight hanging from my shoulders is comforting and familiar, like an anchor.  _ Let me have this slice of normalcy. _

 

The sound of our feet on gravel, then rough pavement, echoes in my ears like thunder.  _ Jesus, why did I think this was a good idea? _ Phil’s not spoken yet, but it’s been a whole two minutes - I counted - and I have no doubt we’re reaching his threshold for silence. As if on cue, he points out a cat on the other side of the road. I manage a glance in that direction, catching the bobbed tail of one of the many strays that roam the countryside.  _ What do I say to that, though? I don’t want to come off disinterested, or rude, or... _ in the time it takes me to consider this, Phil’s already off on another tangent, filling the silence before it can form.

 

The rest of the trip into town passes this way: Phil talks endlessly, occasionally offers to take a bag from me, and I stay mostly quiet, except to refuse his help. Just as we reach the end of the main avenue, Phil asks to help  _ yet again  _ \- nerves must be getting to me, the prospect of conforming to societal norms layering on top of the social interaction I’m already trying to endure, because I let out a huff of breath.

 

“It’s fine, it’s all really light,” I push ahead of him, as his pace has slowed and I really just want to get to my spot and zone out for a while. I set my things down at the edge of the pavement, then pull a worn blanket from my bag, flicking the whole thing hard in frustration.  _ It’s not like I want to be rude, I just...this is already a lot, and I’m shit at this whole ‘interaction’ thing.  _ I tug absently at the corners of the blanket, though I can see it’s pretty flat, before digging into my other bag for the sea glass - more common colors on one side, rarer colors on the other side, bags in the middle.  _ See? This is normal, you’re fine, just stick to the status quo... _ I reach for the portfolio bag with a tiny grin on my face.

 

A hand on my shoulder makes me jump, pulling me abruptly from my High School Musical reverie, and I fumble to hold onto the bag. Phil’s apologizing when I turn, and he’s stepping back like I’m a wounded animal - his eyes are wide with concern, like he’s not sure whether I’ll lunge and bite or bow my head and let him help. I opt for the latter, because he  _ is _ actually offering to help, and I may or may not have  _ Breaking Free _ stuck in my head right now. I resist the urge to hum it as I hand over the sketches in my portfolio and instruct him on how to lay them out.

 

_ Maybe having Phil here isn’t all that bad. _ I pull a pen and cardstock from my bag, then settle at the back edge of the blanket to write the price tags. Well, that’s my intention, but I end up watching Phil as he gently lays out each sketch, weighing down the corners with sea glass - though my hand is hovering over the page, completely still, my heart is thumping out a wild rhythm.  _ Why does he look like he  _ cares _ so much? _

 

“These are really impressive,” his words catch me entirely off guard, and I pretend to have been writing this entire time. Then glance back up at Phil, as if I’ve only just recalled he’s here.  _ They’re not  _ that _ good. _ I scan the drawings he’s laid out, then look back at his face.  _ Why are his compliments so damn sincere? _ I’m grateful for the slight chill in the air, which I hope is covering the heat I can feel crawling up to my cheeks.

 

“Yeah, they’re alright, I guess. People buy them, so…”  _ they’d have to be halfway decent.  _ I focus on the cardstock, jotting down a few more numbers and setting them out beside their respective pieces. As I slide the remaining paper and pen back into the bag, Phil settles beside me - he’s not all that close, but the breeze is blowing in from the ocean and I suddenly  _ wish _ he were right beside me. 

 

I start counting in my head, because that’s far easier than trying to come up with something to talk about. Phil manages to be silent for less than a minute.

 

“So…You like the ocean?” I almost laugh at the question, because  _ how did he manage to hit on the one thing I’d actually love to talk about? _ But surely he means the art, not the ocean itself. Which is also true, I do like to draw the ocean.

 

“Uh, yeah, I mean, it’s great practice. Always changing,” true, true, true.  _ But not everything. _ I wait, expecting him to move on, ask a different but equally surface-level question - perhaps my favorite color, or animal, or what TV show I’m binge-watching. But he doesn’t, and still doesn’t, and  _ still _ doesn’t, and that pesky urge to talk, to tell him things, overwhelms me.

 

“There’s something intriguing about the idea that nothing in the ocean or the sky is ever the same, that there’s constant change. That the only constant  _ is _ change.” I keep my eyes on the horizon across from us -  _ ‘the only constant  _ is _ change’? Jesus, I sound like a fucking pretentious twat. _ But the words are the truest I’ve said to him so far, and I like the way they sound.  _ He probably thinks they sound stupid. _ But he doesn’t say a word, just makes a small curious sound under his breath - it’s just as startling, though. And somehow, that does it again, and words bubble back up in my chest. _ Fine, go on then. _

 

“But it’s a comfort, too. Even when things are in constant flux, they’re still the same. The ocean is still the ocean, regardless of how it looks today. Despite the change, it’s beautiful. It’s something worth looking at. It’s something that deserves to exist and be admired.” I try not to think about how much of that is me talking about the _ocean_ and how much is me talking about _myself._ _Please don’t think I’m a weirdo after saying that, please just...stay around a while._

 

A woman approaches - Patricia, I think - and scoops up some of the sea glass. She’s not a regular, but her father likes to work with the stuff on his better days. I’m glad she’s buying some more for him. Without a word, she hands over a few pounds and heads off down the street - she pauses by an older man, her father, and I immediately reach for my sketchbook: his face has lit up, immeasurably happy, as he inspects the bag. 

 

But Phil’s still sat beside me, and I’m  _ sure  _ \- though I don’t dare check - that he’s peeking over my shoulder. It sets me on edge, and the lines I manage to put down are shaky at best.  _ Surely he’s judging. _ It’s a silly thought, I know, but it won’t let me focus.

 

“You should go check out the other stalls,” I suggest, because I need him to be  _ anywhere else _ for just a bit.  _ I just need a minute, okay? _ I try to keep my voice light, the way his sounds when he’s being nice to me. He shifts, then pauses. “Go on, I’ll be here,” I add, exhaling in relief when he steps off the blanket and disappears into the crowd.

 

Though the image of Patricia’s father hasn’t quite faded from my mind, I’m more tempted to sketch Phil now - something about the idea that he could come back at any moment, possibly catch me drawing him, is frighteningly exhilarating. I abandon the lines I’d started and move toward the bottom corner of the page.  _ Maybe I could hide it, if he did almost catch me. _

 

I spend a disturbingly short period of time fleshing out his profile -  _ how is it possible I know every feature this well already? Am I really that hooked? _ \- but he’s not yet returned. I take a moment to scan the crowds, but I don’t catch his face, and I’m distracted by an approaching group.

 

Apparently, they’re art students - they claim to be on holiday, though I can’t imagine why they’d come here - and demand to scoop up all my remaining drawings. They pay exorbitantly, insisting the pieces are worth far more than I’m asking, and I’m too embarrassed to refuse more than once. 

 

They’re an  _ interesting _ bunch, asking questions I don’t know how to answer about techniques I’ve never heard of.

 

“I don’t, uh, I haven’t actually  _ studied  _ art...or drawing, or anything,” I mumble after the fourth such question. Then I’m bombarded with  _ more _ questions, like  _ why on earth not _ and  _ how did you get to be so talented _ and _ would you ever study, then _ . The last one catches me off guard, and an older gentleman in the group seems to notice.

 

“It’s never too late, you know. I’m- well, let’s just say, I’m a bit older than you,” he chuckles, though it doesn’t help my nerves from all the conversing going on. “And I still went back.” He fishes in his bag for a moment, returning with a small business card. “Here, if you ever decide you’d like to give it a shot, I know some people who’d love to see what you’re capable of.” I take it from him, more out of politeness than anything, and he and the rest of the students meander off. The card feels unnaturally heavy in my hand, and I consider the possibilities.  _ I could go to school, but why?  _

 

My mind flashes to Phil - the same Phil who, after the cabin has been sold, will be gone again.  _ Would I really do that, just to follow some guy I’m crushing on? Some guy who barely knows me, but still listens and talks and seems to like my company? Some guy with oceans in his eyes and crashing waves in his laughter and a spark that I’m somehow getting better and better at drawing? _ I peek down at the corner of my sketchbook, half covered by my arm.  _ I don’t know what I’m doing or how, but there it is. _

 

_ Fuck, I’m in deep. _

 

I shove the card into my bag, and it brushes against the red sea glass.  _ I wonder where Avery and Jasmine are? _ I sketch absently, now, just to give my fingers something to do - they’ve become fidgety and restless, and I fill every blank space with the faces of passersby. I flip to the next page, deciding on something more static than the expressive looks I notice in the crowd: the building across the street, an old church-turned-bar-turned-historical monument. 

 

Then I’m restless again, returning to sketching the vague outlines of the people that pass - some details get filled in, but I can tell my hand is itching to draw Phil again. I’m about to start on him, perhaps the disheveled, wind-blown Phil from a couple nights ago, when a warm presence rests against my arm. 

 

“Got you this,” the words worm through my concentration, and I’m suddenly very glad I didn’t get past a few lines - Phil’s sat down next to me, holding a wrapped sandwich in my face.  _ Oh god, what if he saw the- no, wait, that was the other page. It’s fine. It’s okay. _ I set my pencil down, grabbing the sandwich and setting my sketchbook aside - I give him a small thanks, though I can barely hear it myself, before robotically unwrapping the food.  _ Oh my god, he could’ve seen, if I had gotten further along in the drawing, he would’ve seen it. _ I’m devouring the sandwich, more out of nerves than hunger, and I’ve got my sketchbook back in my lap a minute later.

 

_ Anything else, focus on anything else _ . I catch a glimpse of Barbara at the stall beside my blanket - she rarely buys anything, and never from me, but she’s a good friend of my grandma’s and I know her face well enough to get the outlines without focusing too much. Which is the goal, since Phil’s right next to me, and I can’t really  _ think _ straight, let alone  _ draw _ straight. 

 

Phil’s sat next to me, leaning over my shoulder, and I can feel his breath tickling the patch of exposed skin at the base of my neck, and it sends a shiver up my spine.  _ Fuck it, I’m just royally screwed now.  _ I don’t bother picking up where I left off on the sketch of Barbara - if I’m going out, it’ll be with a fucking  _ bang. _ I’m just beginning the edges of Phil’s jaw when his voice interrupts my thoughts.

 

“Is this what you do all day, when you’re here?” He asks around a bite of sandwich, and I glance over at him blankly.  _ You’re ruining my big reveal, you spork. _ I shrug, hoping that’ll brush off the disappointment.

 

“Yeah, I mean not  _ all _ day,” I amend, feeling self-conscious again, “just until everything’s sold.”  _ Not true. _ I couldn’t care less whether everything’s sold, but I’ve yet to see Avery and Jasmine - their mum works night shifts at the coffee shop, so I know they don’t usually show up until late afternoon, but I’m worried that the storm from yesterday might’ve hit them hard, since they live right on the docks.  _ Oh god, I hope nothing bad happened, I hope Margerie sent the kids off to their grandparents’ last night. _ I’m suddenly more focused on my worries than on Phil - he asks some question I don’t hear, but my eyes zero in on the two sandy-haired kids racing up the pavement. 

 

I notice Margerie off at a distance behind them, perusing some of the stalls selling handmade clothes, and I exhale in relief - she wouldn’t be out here if something  _ truly  _ bad had happened. Avery drops to the blanket first, frowning at Jasmine then at me when he doesn’t spot the red sea glass. I have to fight the urge to grin when they whine at me, and I dig into my bag.

 

There are only a few pieces, this time, but the kids don’t seem to mind - Jasmine’s actually  _ clapping _ , excitement clear on her face, and I add that to the little file of memories I’ll have to get down on paper later. Her brother joins a moment later, mirroring her enthusiasm, and I place the sea glass into one of the plastic bags. Avery pulls a few coins from his pocket, dropping them into my hand and taking the bag with a look of reverence that some might reserve for a deity.  _ Please always keep your wonder for the world. _

 

Much like the other interactions with my regular patrons, I’m silent the whole time, but the kids never judge me for it. I realize my face is aching, and a moment later, that I’m  _ grinning like a fucking idiot _ . I peek over at Phil, who’s got his mouth open like a fish just staring at me.

 

“What?” I drop my smile.  _ Kids are so much nicer than adults, apparently even  _ Phil _ is judging me. _ I don’t know what exactly I’m afraid he’s judging me for, maybe just for being  _ happy _ , but he only wants to know about the sea glass.

 

“They always ask about the red sea glass. It’s pretty hard to find, so I save them some whenever I’m down here selling it.” I begin packing because my hands need something to do.  _ Don’t look at me like that. _ I want to shout it at Phil, but that would be rude - I’m just not used to the amount of attention he’s paying me, and it’s  _ incredibly _ unnerving.

 

By some sad miracle, Phil doesn’t say much on the way back to the house - I’m not sure if he’s giving me space, but I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel.  _ His voice is really nice to listen to. _ But a piece of me is relieved, because silence is something I understand, and I can feel the layers of anxiety drift away as we walk back. By the time I’ve gotten up the stairs and into the art room, I’m feeling mostly normal.

 

Except that weight in my chest - it isn’t painful or heavy, just a kind of comforting tug. I focus on it, trying to determine its shape and size and outline as I dump the unsold sea glass back on the floor. But the feeling is shifting, changing, formless, and I frown - I’m stood in the middle of the room, intent on capturing the weight on paper, but I can’t visualize it properly.  _ This is a job for pencil, I need to be able to change it when it doesn’t look right. _

 

So I head for my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I pause, though, when a lumpy pile of bedding by the window catches my eye.  _ Was that really just last night? _ Something about the events of the day make it feel like ages have passed.  _ It’s a shame the sky has cleared. _ I step over to the window, peeking out -  _ no, no storm tonight. _ I retreat to my desk, pulling out the pencil and paper. 

 

I go purely by feeling, adding lines I’m unsure of - I even find myself drawing things I  _ know _ are wrong, just to confirm they don’t suit the feeling in my chest. The page becomes a blurry mess of half-erased lines, dips in the paper where I’ve shaded too heavily, and smudges where I couldn’t be bothered to clean the sketch up properly.

 

I don’t know how long I draw, how many times I press the pencil to the paper, how many times I run over those same lines with the eraser; after some time, I sit back in my chair to observe my work.

 

_ Fuck. _ From the page, an image of Phil stares back.  _ Of fucking course it’s him. _ The sketch isn’t like my others - I didn’t go in with the intent of drawing a person - and it’s not a memory. This is something that hasn’t happened.  _ Yet. _ I  _ want  _ it to happen, that’s what the stupid fucking tug in my chest is. I want Phil to look like  _ that _ , because of me; his eyes are closed, but not squeezed shut, like they could flutter open at any second. Somehow, smudges have become a soft blush, and his mouth is a deep, dark version of his cheeks. His hair’s been mussed up, pushed off his forehead by lazy hands, and his lips are parted just enough that-

 

_ Alright, fuck, I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. I want him to  _ want _ to kiss me, to look like this because he wants me, and  _ fuck _ I’m so gone. _ I shove the page in the bottom drawer of my desk and stand in a huff.  _ This is stupid. There are a trillion things that could go wrong - he might not even like guys, for all I know! _ I’m torn between wanting him to push me up against a wall and kiss me like his life depends on it and wanting him to reject me so thoroughly that I can just get over this stupid crush.

 

Really, I just want him to  _ decide _ .  _ Just make it obvious, damn it, I’m shit at reading signals. If you like me, do something about it, if you don’t, then say so. _ I know damn well that I won’t be the one making a move.  _ Coward. _

 

The whole thing has me flustered, and I resolve to do  _ anything _ aside from think about Phil -  _ sea glass _ , I consider,  _ it’d be really fucking hard to turn my sculpture into Phil on accident. _ I fling my door open, stomping into the hall and shoving open the door to the art room.

 

My mouth drops, because  _ of course _ Phil’s just stood there, staring at me like a kid who’s been caught stealing, and generally invading my privacy.  _ The whole point of coming in here was to  _ stop _ thinking about you! _ I would shout it if I could manage it, but my throat’s been blocked by a tight lump.

 

“Uhh...hey Dan!” His voice is unnaturally bright, and I’m struck with the urge to run over, drag him to the window, and shove him out and into the ocean.  _ At what point did I give you permission to just...pop in here whenever you felt like it? _

 

“ _ What are you doing? _ ” The anger finally bubbles over, and I’m marching across the room toward him, crossing my arms to prevent the whole ‘throwing him out the window’ part. And for some  _ horrifyingly unclear reason _ , Phil bites at his lip and pulls a hand to his face as he starts fucking  _ giggling. _ “What is so funny? And  _ why _ are you in here?” At this point, I notice that his opposite hand is still held resolutely behind him. “And  _ what _ are you hiding behind your back?”  _ Oh god, fucking hell, he was in here and looking at... _ I don’t have to take my eyes off him to realize where we are, in which part of the room.

 

_ Oh god, my drawings of Phil...they’re  _ everywhere _.  _

 

Blood rushes to my cheeks. I may have been in a mood earlier, ready to just reveal my crush via a hastily-sketched doodle of Phil, but this is...not the same. Not at all.  _ A doodle is one thing, an easy way to admit I have feelings...this, this is a whole other level of infatuation… _

 

“They’re really good! All your art today was so good, and I just wanted to see the rest, and it’s  _ all _ really good.” Phil’s words come out fast, and my fingers clasp tighter at my arms - I’m pretty sure I’ll end up leaving marks, the way my nails are digging in. Then he reveals the sketch he’d been hiding, extending it toward me. “Especially the ones of me.” I grimace, and I’d honestly groan if I didn’t think it would make the whole thing ten times more embarrassing.

 

I take the drawing from him, releasing the death grip on one of my arms: it’s the sketch from the morning he’d been so exhausted, yet somehow so genuinely happy - when I had finally managed to capture that spark.  _ I still have no idea... _ I stare at the page for a few seconds. I  _ want _ to be mad, I  _ want _ to hold it against him and rage and kick his ass out...but I would honestly do  _ anything _ to see that again - that spark, and not just in a drawing. 

 

“Can you just...leave?” I sigh it out, not bothering to look up from the drawing.  _ I’m too exhausted, mentally, to deal with these opposing emotions right now. _

 

Then he’s on his way to the door, apologizing in an uncomfortably serious tone that doesn’t settle well in my stomach. I expect to hear the soft click of the door closing, but I only hear a pause - it’s expectant, and I can feel the atmosphere shift.  _ Wow, ‘the atmosphere shifts’ because Phil’s about to speak? How pathetic do I sound. _

 

And then he  _ thanks _ me. He fucking  _ thanks _ me, and I look up abruptly. I can feel my eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever drawn me like that. Or drawn me  _ ever _ . I really like it.” Then he’s _ smiling _ , even though he feels bad, even though I was pissed at him. I can’t help the tug at the corner of my cheek, and then the door closes and I’m left alone. 

 

_ He is truly the ocean on the perfect day, all blues and turquoises and greens and every aesthetic that people come to the beach for. No, wait - a sunset, over the sea, full of vibrant colors and the most beautiful hues. Or, maybe... _ I stand still for another several minutes, rolling the idea of Phil over in my head again and again - nothing I can think of seems to perfectly suit him, though.  _ He’s just...Phil. Nothing else compares. _ A lot of things happen all at once, and I grip the page in my hand a little tighter and abandon the art room for my bedroom.

 

\-------------------------------

 

I’ve re-drafted the same email probably fifteen times, but every time I read it, I find something that I’m sure sounds off or unprofessional. After three minutes of staring at my - admittedly dubious - use of a semicolon, I hit the send button and hold my breath. I almost click ‘Undo’, then, because  _ surely _ someone studying at university would be appalled at my comparably uneducated grammar.

 

But the bubble disappears, and I exhale.  _ Too late to take it back now,  _ I reason, and something about that finality makes my chest light and fuzzy. The next two hours I spend doing a lot of research, particularly on the best way to make my art digital. I haven’t got one of those fancy digital drawing pads, nor would I know much about using it. I’m also woefully lacking a high-quality camera, and the idea of trekking into town to use one of the scanners at the Visitors Center is daunting.  _ Maybe another day, when I’m not as overwhelmed. Or on a market day. _

 

Satisfied that I can - at  _ some _ point in the near future - get all my art in a digital format, I push back from the desk feeling immensely productive and self-assured.  _ Maybe... _ on my way down the hall, I pause to peek into the art room. It feels...emptier, though it takes me a minute to reason why. _ Tomorrow, I should go get more sea glass tomorrow. _ An idea sparks at the edge of my mind, and I’m thoroughly tempted to dismiss it.

 

Instead, I grip it tight and head down the stairs.

 

\--------------------------------

 

“Hey,” I cling desperately to the trickle of confidence, because I can feel it drying up as I enter the kitchen.  _ Come on, you can do this. He said yes to the trip to the market, right?  _ I set myself to making dinner, pulling out some vegetables and a cutting board.

 

Phil responds in kind and joins me, first checking the fridge, then the pantry, then the fridge again. I watch him from the corner of my eye, waiting for him to strike up conversation. But minutes pass, and he’s somehow  _ still _ managed to stay quiet - nerves run up through my fingers.  _ Shit, I was pretty angry earlier, maybe he doesn’t actually  _ want _ to talk to me now... _ I grip the knife tighter in my hand as I chop, trying to squeeze out some resolve.

 

“I, uh, I’m going down to the beach to collect more sea glass tomorrow.” I don’t dare look up, because I’ll definitely chicken out if he’s staring at me. After a heavy pause, I manage to actually ask. “Do you maybe...want to come with?” Now the silence really  _ is _ heavy, weighing at my shoulders and making my cuts haphazard.  _ This is going to be the weirdest, lumpiest stew I’ve ever made. _

 

Several tense seconds pass without an answer, and I suck in a breath.  _ Oh my god, he doesn’t want to go. He’s trying to find a nice way to say no, he has no interest in spending even  _ more _ time with me, and oh god I should just abandon this stupid hopefulness and return to my little recluse lifestyle… _ “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to,” I offer as an easy way out, despite the twist in my gut.  _ Please don’t take it, please just say you- _

 

“Oh! No, that sounds like fun, actually.” I exhale possibly  _ the  _ most nervous breath I’ve held in my entire life. “I’m just surprised you asked, I thought you liked to do that alone,”  _ Oh.  _ I consider that for a minute, staring at the zucchini and making an extra effort to keep the slices even.  _ I do prefer to be alone on the beach, since when did I decide I wanted to share that with him? _

 

_ You know bloody well when. _ I - sort of - try to hide the small smile tugging at my cheek when I respond.

 

“Yeah, usually, I guess.” Phil must have a sixth sense (not that I believe in the supernatural) because he doesn’t pry; I wouldn’t have an answer if he’d asked me  _ why  _ I invited him - not one that wouldn’t be completely mortifying, anyway.  _ Apparently, you see, falling for you is enough to make me decide to turn my entire life on its damn head.  _

 

\----------------------------------

 

I bolt upright when my alarm rings, throwing off my covers with an unusual enthusiasm for it being twenty to eight.  _ But I get to spend the whole morning with Phil, and... _ something about sharing the beach, the sea glass, with him is exhilarating.  _ But he probably won’t like it as much as I do. _ The thought, along with the warm water now cascading down my back as I shower, is enough to calm me into something a little more composed - by the time I’m out of the bathroom, hair as dry as I can manage with a towel and my coziest jumper pulled over my head, I can almost pass for someone who’s not shot through with anxiety and anticipation.

 

Until an unexpected ding from my computer has me pausing at the door -  _ literally _ , foot stretched over the threshold, and right on eight, and my stupid laptop has to go and alert me I’ve got an email. I rush over to the desk, knowing I won’t be able to focus at all if I don’t at least check.

 

I sit hard in my chair when I notice the sender - it’s Michael Kaeplin, the art student from the market. Unable to help myself, I decide to scan through it quickly.  _ I can respond later, I just want to know what it says. _ Well. That’s the plan, anyway. My eyes go wide reading the contents, and I set my bag down on the floor to type up a response. 

 

By the time I’m comfortable hitting send, I check the time. Of course, I’m now  _ fifteen fucking minutes late _ . I stare hard at my computer before closing the lid, then snatch my bag and dash unceremoniously down the hall. My feet thump on the steps and I accompany the sound with a hastily invented apology - Phil’s already up, in the kitchen, and presumably has been waiting for me since eight.  _ Wow, great start to the date- _ my eyes go wide yet again, because  _ is _ it a date? I mean, _ I _ didn’t specify,  _ he  _ didn’t specify, and  _ oh god what if I do something stupid, and he never wants to talk to me again- _

 

“Ready?” Phil’s voice shocks me out of my head, enough that I can nod a response, and we make our way toward the back porch. Nerves tingle in my stomach the entire way down, worming around and twisting my stomach into knots; it’s like the market all over again - the static elements are familiar and comforting, but having Phil around seems to throw everything off balance and into a freefall.  _ I hope he doesn’t think this is boring… _

 

We walk in silence along the beach, which is adding a whole other layer of complexity -  _ why is Phil so quiet? _ When he first met me, it was like a waterfall I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried; now, he’s reserved, like he’s waiting for me-  _ oh. Maybe he’s got my head figured out even better than I do. _

 

“You’re quiet,” I joke, focused on the ground. When he laughs, though, I allow myself a little smirk. 

 

“Oh,  _ I’m _ quiet, am I?” His tone holds the echoes of his laugh, and I  _ know _ he’s just joking back, but I can’t help the bitter flavor that slips onto my tongue.

 

“Yeah, I know, I’m the weird guy who never talks,” I retort, and my mood sours.  _ Way to go, just toss all your insecurities out in front of you. I’m sure that’ll make him like you, right? _ I wince - I’ve just made everything immensely uncomfortable for us both, I’m sure.

 

“Well, normalness leads to sadness,” my breath hitches at his casual response. I grin, falling back just a little because I’m not sure if I want him to see how much that affected me, how light it made me feel so that I can’t even hide a smile.  _ I feel like how he looks when he’s laughing.  _

 

_ Oh right, you twat, that’s called ‘happiness’. _

 

We’re silent a while longer, then, because I don’t have anything I could  _ possibly _ say to that - everything would sound flat, to me, like a matte finish on a high-gloss painting, rendering it slightly  _ less  _ than it originally was (okay, I may have done a  _ little _ research on some of the terms those art students were talking about…)

 

“You’re usually much more talkative, though,” I finally manage to remember the original discussion, about his quietness. “ _ I like to listen to you talk, _ ” I tack it on, then immediately wish I hadn’t.  _ Great, now I really sound like a lovesick puppy or some shit. _ The chilly breeze off the ocean doesn’t do much for my now-heated cheeks.

 

Phil hums, like a question, and I suck in a breath.  _ He didn’t hear. I could just...pretend I didn’t say it. _ But there’s that damned  _ feeling _ I get from him, the one that draws words out of me, so I repeat it.  _ Please don’t laugh at me. _

 

“Well _ I _ like to listen to  _ you _ talk, so we’ll have to figure out some kind of compromise here,”  _ again. _ Somehow,  _ again _ , he’s managed to surprise me. Enough that I look up, lock eyes, because he had no reason to say that.  _ He had no reason, yet again, and he still managed to say exactly what I didn’t know I needed to hear. _

 

In a fantastically undignified fashion, I then get my fucking  _ toe _ caught on buried driftwood and manage to nearly face-plant into the wet sand. 

 

And, in an  _ equally  _ undignified fashion, I find myself clutching onto a warm body with my face buried in the same shoulder I’d woken up on the night before last - somehow, Phil’s in front of me and holding me up, and I can feel fire across my back where his arms grip me.

 

There’s a moment, the same kind of moment when the sun is about to dip below the horizon and disappear, where everything seems unnaturally bright and still. Then it’s broken, and the sun’s gone in one fell swoop. Except, in this case,  _ I’m  _ the one doing the breaking, and Phil’s the disappearing sun. We step apart, and I rub the back of my neck, muttering the first apology that comes to mind - I’m not even sure what I say, though, still focused on the lingering trail of flames I can feel spreading from my back across my entire body. I’m sure my face is bright red.

 

“It’s alright, really. But maybe you should hold on, just to be sure it doesn’t happen again,” I’m still working through his words, trying to put them together in the right order and decipher the meaning, when his hand grabs mine. I nearly trip again, biting my lip.  _ Okay then, I guess this is not a one-sided-pining-unrequited-love story, then. _ And for the second time in as many minutes, he’s got me fucking  _ grinning _ , though I still can’t manage the eye contact. 

 

“Alright,” it’s all I can get past the bubble in my chest, and fortunately, Phil doesn’t push it. We walk in silence for what feels like five seconds but I know, objectively, is more like five minutes. I spend the time focused on my hand, on  _ Phil’s _ hand, on the way they feel when they’re intertwined like this. Though I don’t  _ look  _ at our hands - except for a glimpse from the corner of my eye - I swear I could draw them both, together like that, without a single hesitant stroke. 

 

As we get to the end of the beach, I manage to pry my hand away - it takes a huge amount of willpower, though, because I could very easily just stand there that way for ages.  _ Dan, you’re being a fucking sap again, cut it out. _ A glint of pale blue catches my eye, and I lean down to dig it from the sand. 

 

“Just look for stuff like this, or anything similar, the color doesn’t matter.” I hold up the sea glass, a relatively common light turquoise, and let Phil examine it. Then he’s off, zig-zagging across the sand with his eyes downcast and all the excitement of a puppy searching for a toy. 

 

Because he’s distracted - and because I’m a little enamored ( _ really, just a little _ ) - I let myself watch him. Which was perhaps a mistake, because I have to bite my lip to stop shouting at him that he’s being  _ very haphazard _ about his search, and he’s not going to  _ find _ anything if-

 

I have to quickly hide a smile when he grabs a piece from the sand, wielding it toward me with the most triumphant grin. 

 

“You’re distressing me by being very disorganized,” I stare, raising an eyebrow as he makes his way over. “How do you even know if you’ve looked somewhere before or not?” I hold the bag and he wordlessly drops the bright green glass in. I’m shocked at myself - this time, it’s more than just the feeling of words being drawn out of me, it’s an actual genuine  _ desire _ to speak.  _ There was nothing about that situation that actually demanded I speak. _

 

Phil turns from me, scanning the muddled indents his shoes have left in the sand, clearly trying to come up with some interpretation of logic. I save him the trouble, pursing my lips against the laugh I can feel in my chest.

 

“Why don’t you start over there, by the edge of the beach,” I point, “and I’ll keep going up here. We can meet in the middle.” It’s a simple suggestion, but I catch some glint in his eye as he turns, and I can’t place it. A part of me wants to chase after him, spin him around and have him explain  _ what exactly that was _ , but the more rational side says I should definitely  _ not _ do that. 

 

Instead, I turn, eyes focused on the sand and mind drifting off, wondering  _ what exactly _ Phil’s doing to me, why I’m suddenly talkative and impulsive and preferring company during what used to be my escape from the world. Getting lost in my thoughts is exactly how, yet again, I get us caught in a  _ fucking storm _ .

 

I must notice it first - the drop in temperature and heavy weight of the atmosphere are more familiar to me than him, surely - because I stop dead in my tracks at the first drop of rain. Phil’s still searching the sand, and the whole scene is frozen for a moment: a mop of black hair, straight and dangling from the head of a tall man as he leans over the sand, toeing here and there with his shoes before shuffling on a little farther. It’s pale ice meets slate gray skies, a black-and-white painting with just a hint of hue, and I don’t want to break the surreal image.

 

And I don’t - but Phil does, head whipping up and mouth dropping open. Lightning flashes behind him, and he becomes a silhouette. Bright blue blue eyes are the first thing to return, and the color pulls me from whatever trance I’ve fallen into - the world whips around me, wind and rain slicing through my sweater and piercing my cheeks.

 

_ The cave. _ It’s barely a thought, but I wave at Phil and try to shout.  _ Inside. We have to get out of the storm. _ My brain stops working, interjecting with only the most vital thoughts, and I duck through the familiar hole in the side of the cliff. Nothing properly registers until I’m stood in the middle of the open area - I know this purely by feeling, because the darkness in here is absolute and broken only by intermittent lightning flashes.

 

“Phil?” I call out - or mean to, my voice is shaking and quiet. _ I swear to god if he’s stuck out there and I have to go find him _ \-  _ oh. _ I fight back a gasp when hands grab my shoulders. Then I fight back the urge to wrap him in a hug, because  _ jesus christ this is all my fault, we’re stuck out in this stupid storm and- _

 

“Hey, yeah, I’m right here. You okay?”  _ How is he so…? _ I can’t even think of the word, because even in the middle of a fucking  _ storm _ , a storm  _ I _ got him stuck in, he’s asking whether or not  _ I’m _ okay. The answer is, most definitely,  _ no. _ I think I’m saying that, or some version of that, but I’m not actually choosing my words and they’re coming out  _ very _ fast and  _ oh god this was such a horrible idea I  _ knew  _ there would be a storm today and I lost track of time and- _

 

Arms pull me into a warm chest.  _ Phil’s. Phil’s arms, Phil’s chest. _ I let out a soft ‘oh’, because the words have all suddenly left and I feel the need to acknowledge their departure. The unexpected heat of another body hits me, sending goosebumps flying across my skin everywhere that Phil isn’t touching - the contrast makes me shiver.

 

As my brain catches up to my current situation, wrapped in Phil’s arms, I realize that this is a  _ hug, you idiot, and you’re supposed to hug him back _ . My muscles are frozen, and I have to tell my arms three times to lift up and move around Phil before they actually respond. Then the warmth isn’t coming just from  _ outside _ \- a fire’s raging in my chest, overwhelming at first, and I have to take deep, steadying breaths to stay calm. I think Phil’s talking, but his voice is right next to my ear and this whole thing is  _ a lot _ and I can’t really decipher the words. 

 

His tone is  _ soothing _ though, that much I can tell, and it cools the wildfire into a warm glow of embers; no longer tensed against the onslaught of  _ everything _ , my muscles loosen. Cautiously, I lay my head on his shoulder and let my arms fall to encircle his lower back - a piece of me is ready to jump back, worried he might not accept the new position, but he doesn’t move and my head is too tired to give it much more thought.

 

We stay that way for a little, until my muffled hearing clears and I can make out the waves crashing on the beach and the sound of rain pooling in the sand outside. 

 

“What are we supposed to do?” I don’t want to lift my head, so I talk into Phil’s jacket, and the warmth of my breath mixes with the heat radiating from his shoulder -  _ I sound calm _ , I notice,  _ how strange. _ I expected the words to shake as they came out, or not even make it past my lips at all.

 

Phil pulls away, though his arms stay around me in a loose embrace, and the sudden movement rattles my thoughts until they settle with unusual clarity. He’s talking again, and his words make it to my ears, and I understand them - we’ll leave when it’s less intense - but that strange calmness has settled over everything.  _ We’re in the cave,  _ my _ cave. _

 

I drag him by the hand, quickly at first but slowing when I notice the way his steps hesitate, how he’s pulling back at me just slightly. In moments, we’re standing into what I would easily call my favorite spot on the entire island.  _ Maybe the entire planet, not that I’ve traveled much. _

 

It’s lighter here, though I could probably navigate by echolocation if I had to, so I let go of Phil’s hand and move to the other end of the cave - I keep some supplies here, in case I break a pencil or need extra paper, but I’m not searching for that right now; my hands close around an energy bar, stashed here for when I get so distracted by drawing that I miss a meal. 

 

My fingers brush against the tiny spare sketchbook I keep - it’s half-empty from the times I ripped out pages to take back to the house, but I close the plastic container and make my way back toward Phil. Who’s now calling my name like I’ve just abandoned him in the middle of a crowded city, though I’m sure he can see my outline as I return.

 

“Here, energy bar. I come out here to draw a lot. It’s my favorite spot, really. So I keep some snacks here, in case I’m here a while. The bars stay for ages,” I realize I’m talking a  _ lot _ for someone who really doesn’t like to talk, so I clamp my mouth shut and link my arm through his.  _ It’s just a less aggressive way to drag him to the spot, _ I feel my brain trying to convince my heart of the logic.  _ Besides, my hands are cold. _

 

_ Yeah, but I bet his hands would be pretty warm right now, _ my heart responds, and I drop to the ground in a huff to shut it up. Phil settles beside me, and I hear the plasticky tear of the energy bar wrapper. He takes a bite, seemingly rather focused on chewing, so I pull him closer.  _ He’s just not looking, that’s all. _ The moment he glances over, I stare intently out at the ocean.  _ Wait, not quite, _ I tug at Phil again. 

 

_ You know damn well that the view is exactly the same, he doesn’t need to move closer. _ I brush the thought away, riding the wave of warmth that accompanies Phil as he scoots next to me - it’s strange to think I was  _ cold _ just minutes ago, and now I feel like I could ignite a bonfire with just a touch.

 

“Right... _ here _ ,” I point, just to distract myself - though I  _ really do _ want him to see this. “Isn’t it amazing?” The words come out on a breath, because Phil’s  _ leaning into me _ , shoulder pressed heavily against mine. I can’t look, though, because my nerves are tingling from my toes to my fingertips.  _ Phil’s here, and I think he might like me, and I  _ definitely _ like him, and _ ...words stop forming, because Phil says the view is  _ breathtaking _ and  _ jesus christ _ it’s amazing to have someone appreciate the same things I do.

 

We lapse into silence, which starts off comfortable and light but somehow descends into the kind of silence that makes me want to talk again.  _ How does he do that? _ I try to think of the first thing that comes to mind, namely that I would very much like to draw... _ Nope, can’t say I’d like to draw  _ Phil _ , that’s too much. The storm, though… _

 

“I wish I had my sketchbook, I’ve never seen it from here during a storm.” It’s sort of a lie, because I very much  _ do _ have my sketchbook, stashed away in the plastic bin, but I want  _ so much more _ to just stay here, inside this exact moment. Something about the raging intensity outside and the calm bubble of warmth we’re sat in is comforting - I can let the storm see this strange shift, where I would rather talk and be around someone than be alone, by myself, drawing. Though we’re already right next to each other, shoulder to hip, I lean back against Phil. 

 

“Well, you’re really good at drawing by memory.” Everything shuts down when his arm wraps around my shoulder, pulling me in closer - the only thing my stupid brain can manage to think about is how  _ warm _ he is and how much I would  _ really _ not like to move.  _ But we have to leave eventually, we can’t stay here forever. What happens then? What if he’s just doing this because of the cold? _

 

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. The real thing is always better,” I know my voice sounds  _ off _ , but - much like the waves bashing against cliffs - my head won’t stop hitting me with the fear that I’m imagining this, that it’ll all dissolve into thin air once we get back to the house.  _ What if this is just the storm, adrenaline and the need for warmth, and when the sky clears, he won’t have any feelings for me? _

 

That thought sticks to me like my soaked clothes the entire way back to the house - once inside, I do my best to wipe it off with a towel, but there’s still  _ something _ lingering. I watch the storm out the wall of windows, and I swear I can see the glass vibrating with the next rumble of thunder.  _ Oh. _ My slow brain catches up to the whirlwind outside.

 

“Do you want to, uh, stay in my room again?” I’m very aware that I’m speaking to the windows, to the storm, but I don’t want him to see my face if he says no. 

 

_ Again, zero reason for you to be thinking that he’d reject you, _ logic chimes in, and I want to scoff a dismissal. But I’m waiting in the wake of another rumble of thunder for Phil’s response, rubbing the towel against my hair in a sad attempt at distraction.

 

“That depends,” Phil’s voice from the kitchen edges on teasing, but my eyebrows arch of their own accord, and my hands pause. “Are we gonna argue about who sleeps on the bed again?” My face heats, and I chew at my lip.  _ Should I just...say it? _ The fact that he didn’t outright deny the offer is tantalizing, and I school my face into something neutral before turning to face him.

 

The towel wrapped around my shoulders, the silvery modern glow of the kitchen, the warm mug Phil hands me, they all suddenly seem  _ immensely _ interesting as I drag the words up from my lungs and spit them out.

 

“Figured we’d just, y’know, share the bed,” the moment they leave my lips, my eyes go wide - I glance up at Phil, not daring to blink, almost  _ challenging  _ him.  _ Go on, say you don’t want to. I dare you -  _ it’s not a smug confrontation, more a bitter last attempt at proving my logical side wrong.  _ Watch, he’ll reject me, now that the opportunity’s presented itself. _

 

“Good plan,” I’m  _ captivated _ by his lips, the way they form those words that shut my entire head down. His hip bumps mine, and my eyes are drawn to my hot chocolate - it sloshes, milky brown liquid skimming the rim of the mug, so I take a long sip.  _ Oh. He didn’t reject me. _ My thoughts move in smooth, slow motion, like calligraphy, and I take another sip. _ He actually wants to share a bed with me. _ This one comes more as a freight train colliding with a concrete wall, and I almost choke on my drink. 

 

Objectively, I’m aware that Phil’s somewhere behind me, probably entirely ignorant of what’s going on in my head, but my cheeks heat anyway. I down the rest of the hot chocolate in a rush, letting the sweet warmth distract me from any other intrusive thoughts, then all but sprint up the stairs.

 

By the time I’m standing under a hot stream of water - more to combat the lingering chill than for cleanliness - my thoughts have settled a little.  _ Okay, he definitely likes you.  _ That one settles the most, bringing back the tug in my chest, and suddenly the hot water feels just a bit  _ too  _ hot against my skin.

 

I shut off the water, stepping out and drying off quickly - my skin tingles where my towel brushes against it. I’m dressed and in the art room in minutes, fingers flitting against different pieces of charcoal to find exactly the one I want to use. 

 

I spend the next several hours sketching before my stomach rudely reminds me that I haven’t eaten much today. When a cursory search of the art room and my bedroom reveals a lack of snacks, I venture down to the kitchen.

 

Phil’s sat in the lounge, tapping away at his laptop. He glances up at my footsteps, giving me a small nod and a smile before his eyes return to the screen. Which gives me full permission to unabashedly study him as I fish through the pantry for something to eat. Whatever he’s doing, he’s fully immersed, and I imagine the exact lines I’d use to capture that concentration: brows furrowed, eyes squinting just a little and lips pursed, fingers hovering over keys, then striking quickly and decisively. 

 

I realize I’ve been staring when Phil pauses for longer than usual, then clicks the trackpad a few times, breaking his pattern. Fortunately, he hasn’t looked up, and I dig a bar out of the box I’ve been holding before shoving it back in the pantry - I’m not exactly in the mood for another energy bar, they’re uneventful snacks, but I don’t want anything that will require my hands to be clean. I have more drawing to do.

 

This time, I’m not actually sure how long I spend sprawled on the floor with a stick of charcoal in my hand - page after page falls victim to the rough black lines - but by the time I next sit up, rolling my shoulders and wrists, it’s pitch black outside. I scan the sketches I’ve finished -  _ fantastic, I’ve managed to smudge them all up as well. _ I rub at the black marks on my palms halfheartedly. 

 

These drawings are different, I notice - all of Phil, of course, but not the ultra-realistic depictions of expressions I’ve already seen: they almost seem cartoonish in nature, quick doodles of Phil at his laptop, or leaned against the kitchen counter, or staring down a massive pile of pancakes. I study them for a little longer, trying to decide what they mean, what I want to do with them, when a soft knock sounds at the door.

 

I blink a few times, then stand slowly and try to shake some feeling back into my legs. I’m immensely glad I grabbed my black jumper -  _ the last thing I need is to go talk to Phil absolutely covered in charcoal. _ After a resigned look at my hands, which are beyond saving, I head over to the door. I’m about to swing it wide when I remember  _ exactly what _ I spent the last several hours doing,  _ who _ I was drawing, and pull it open just a crack instead.

 

I’m not entirely sure why a jolt of surprise flies through me at the sight of Phil, because  _ who the fuck else would be standing at the door. _ But it does, and it reminds me that I should  _ probably  _ say something.

 

“Uh, hi, everything okay?” I wince at my own words, because  _ wow _ that was lame.  _ It’s not like he’d have just stood there in silence if something was wrong. _ I drop my eyes to his chest, which is more than I can usually manage but safer than trying to navigate the oceans in his eyes.  _ How poetic, you sap. _

 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just thought maybe you’d like some company?” I clench my teeth to stop my jaw dropping, because I think this is the first time  _ he’s _ offered to spend time with  _ me _ .  _ Okay, _ logic pops back in, _ if you had any doubts about his feelings,  _ surely _ you don’t any longer? _ “You can say no!” Phil chimes in, and I realize I’m conversing with myself in my head while the actual real person I want to spend time with is stood outside asking to come in.

 

_ Inside, where you have even more drawings of him littering your floor, you can’t just fucking show him all that.  _ ‘What if’s scramble around in my brain, the most pertinent being that  _ what if he gets freaked out by all the sketches? What if he thinks I’m crazy or obsessed or… _

 

“Oh!” I exhale it, hoping to send some of my insecurities out with the word so they can dissipate in the air. “Uh, actually, I was just finished.”  _ Cool, calm, collected, _ “I was about to…” I gesture weakly toward my bedroom, because the excuse is just so flimsy. But I’m not ready to just  _ show _ him everything I’ve drawn -  _ even though, technically, he’s seen so much of it. _

 

“Oh, sure! Right, that’s where I was headed too, until I noticed you were in here. I’ll see you in there, I guess!” I wince at the hint of forced enthusiasm -  _ just...not today. You can see everything, I  _ want _ you to see everything, just not right now.  _ I make a vow to myself that I’ll show him, properly show him, eventually. 

 

He disappears down the hall, and I close the door with a soft click. Then lean against it, dropping my head back against the wood. _Why am I such a coward? Can’t I just admit how I feel without all this tiptoeing around, like he’s going to suddenly hate me?_ I huff out a breath, then push off the door to collect the drawings. _These are going in my bottom drawer._ _For now._

 

It’s dark when I get back to the bedroom, though tiny flashes illuminate the space by the window whenever lightning decides to strike. I’m immensely relieved to see Phil curled up on the bed, clearly fast asleep, and I shove the pages into my desk drawer before fishing out some pajamas and heading to the bathroom.

 

When I emerge, minty and comfy, Phil’s still asleep. I crawl under the covers as carefully as I can manage, trying not to wake him, when I’m hit with the stupid notion that I don’t know if I should lay facing him or not.  _ He’s asleep, _ I reason, _ so it’s not like he’ll know. _

 

I check anyway, mumbling his name after settling on my side so I can just barely see the edges of his hair against his pale forehead. I almost jump out of my fucking  _ skin _ when he responds, though it’s just a noise.

 

“Sorry, were you asleep?” I whisper back, electricity bouncing around my body. I can’t decide if I’d rather he was or wasn’t.  _ Fuck, why is this so complicated? _

 

“No, what’s up?”  _ Oh. I’m glad I didn’t do anything  _ really _ embarrassing. _ Though I’m not entirely sure how he can see  _ anything _ with the darkness in here; I blink, and I can barely tell the difference between having my eyes open and closed.  _ Wait. Question. He asked me a question.  _ An urge to just  _ say it _ bubbles up in my chest, then my throat, and I can feel the words  _ literally _ on the tip of my tongue before I chicken out.

 

“Nothing, it’s silly, forget I said anything,” alarm bells go off inside my head, because  _ that was my chance, I’m such a fucking idiot, I should’ve just spit it out. _ A swirling pit opens up in my stomach, and I turn away from Phil and curl around it. But there’s a hand on my shoulder, and Phil’s asking me to  _ tell him _ and his voice is soft and gentle and  _ still _ never patronizing or judgmental.  _ Go on, say something. _ I can feel my heart and head agreeing, for once, in spite of my anxiety.

 

“Do you like me?” I practically shout it, then squeeze my eyes shut.  _ That was a terrible fucking decision, I mean, what if he says ‘no’? He’s literally laying in the same bed as you, how mortifying would that be? _ It’s as if all my hope flew out the window with my question, and all that’s left are doubt and fear. My question bounces around the room, echoing back into my ears in a tone that makes me want to block everything out and just  _ shut down. _

 

But I don’t, because Phil says  _ yes  _ and my eyes fly open and  _ what is happening?  _ I might have actually gasped, but I’m not really sure. 

 

“Uhm...I think…” I start, hesitant.  _ There is literally no reason not to say it now. _ I’m wrestling with the words, though, trying to put them in the right order so they sound exactly the way I want them to - like my drawings, every line has to be perfect. 

 

_ But it never really is. _ Phil’s hand pulling away from my shoulder jolts the admission out of me, though it’s rushed and garbled and nowhere  _ near _ the masterpiece I’d been trying to create - a flood of embarrassment sends every muscle curling in on itself.  _ Wow, so much for that, I’m an awkward mess. _

 

But the hand returns, sliding down my arm to my hand; every second his skin touches mine, I relax. Something about the gentleness, of the person behind it, sets me at ease. When his hand finds mine, it’s already unclasping to meet his.  _ This is surreal _ . I focus on the way his thumb draws slightly lopsided circles, breathing in time with the movement.

 

Between the warmth and the soothing touch and the mental exhaustion, I feel myself dangling on the edge of sleep - the events of the day wear me down, a siren ready to tug me over the precipice, but I’m afraid to fall asleep, because _what if this was all a dream? Wow,_ _I’m just anxious as fuck today, aren’t I?_

 

Because I’m not  _ quite _ ready to sleep - and, really, just because I  _ can  _ ( _ I hope _ ) - I roll fully across the bed; I  _ know _ it’ll put me right up next to Phil, but I don’t realize just  _ how _ close until his wide blue eyes are maybe two inches from mine.  _ I could kiss him right now, just lean forward a bit and... _ My gaze has drifted down to his lips, and I really almost do it. _ Fuck, I want to. _

 

But I swerve at the last second, dipping my head into his shoulder and letting out a shaky breath against his neck.  _ Coward. _ I channel my awkward energy into making things  _ less _ awkward - or so I hope - and sling an arm across his side. The whole thing is  _ so fucking new _ to me, I don’t really know what I’m doing, and a blush creeps up my cheeks.

 

“Is this okay?” I’m quiet, because I’m right next to his ear and the whole room is dead silent. And also because hearing my words out loud makes me want to cringe. I settle for a frown.

 

Then he’s shifting us both, pulling me closer and letting his hand rest on the middle of my back. My ear is pressed up against his chest, and even though I’m on the wrong side, I can hear his heartbeat - fast, like mine, and I’m smiling because  _ fuck _ if this whole thing hasn’t turned me into a bundle of nerves, but at least I’m not alone. Phil says something, I assume an answer to my previously posed question, but the soft swoosh of his heart is more interesting.

 

He must be getting close to sleep because his heart rate slows down, and I try to time my breathing around it - something about these little things is strangely calming. I’m drifting off myself when a gentle pressure against my head sends a spark of electricity through me.  _ Wow. Two minutes ago I almost had enough bravery to actually kiss those lips, now I’m freaking out because they touched my head. _ I exhale sharply, the closest I’ll let myself get to a bitter laugh when Phil’s almost fallen asleep.

 

_ He’s almost asleep... _ the idea comes in the form of a justification, because maybe I just need to work up the courage to kiss him and this is a halfway step. So I wait, listening until the silence starts to invert itself and Phil’s breaths sound quiet and the emptiness sounds loud without them. Then I sit up, just the slightest bit, and turn toward Phil. He hasn’t moved, I don’t think I’ve woken him, so I lean in slowly and brush my lips against his cheek. It’s such a simple movement, but it leaves hot embers on my lips that I try to cool with my tongue. It doesn’t work.

 

Drained of pretty much all my courage but feeling a spark of pride - though, honestly, I’m not sure I’d have been able to do that if he weren’t asleep - I let the wave of exhaustion take me under.

 

\--------------------------------

 

When I wake, the bed is cold and I’m empty.  _ No, wait, wrong way round. The bed is empty, and I’m cold. _ The grind of the coffee maker echoes from downstairs, and it takes all of three seconds for me to shove off the rest of the covers and head toward the door. However, within those three seconds, I realize just  _ how _ chilly I actually am, and I spin around to my wardrobe.

 

After a minute of searching, pulling out  _ every jumper  _ in the damned thing, I turn to my desk. Where my  _ favorite  _ jumper, the one I’d been looking for, is draped haphazardly across the back of the chair. I pull it over my head, trying to remember the reason it had been discarded here, when I would’ve last been at my desk. 

 

_ Oh.  _ The email I’d responded to. I open my laptop -  _ I swear to god, can this thing boot up any fucking faster? _ \- then check my emails. I lean heavily on the edge of the desk; there’s nothing new, though Michael did say it might be a few days before the dean of admissions could get back to me. I slam the lid shut, hoping to pin and trap my disappointment so it doesn’t follow me out of the room.  _ Focus on something else. _

 

So I do - which is how I end up downstairs rubbing at my eye with my sweater, because surely,  _ surely _ , I imagined everything last night; there is  _ no fucking way _ that the guy standing in my kitchen actually  _ likes me back _ . But I take my hand away, and he’s still there.

 

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” his voice is thick, maybe a little amused, as I meander toward him. I’m trying not to be  _ too _ obvious, but I’d really like some kind of reassurance that I didn’t just make the entire thing up.

 

“No, woke up on my own,” I try to keep my steps slow.  _ Isn’t that what people do, play hard to get or something? _ “Just didn’t know where you’d gone,” I tack on, which - regrettably - sounds a lot more desperate than I’d intended. But the moment I’m about to lean against the kitchen counter - just across from him, close but not  _ too _ close - he reaches out and draws me into his chest.

 

The still-sleeping part of my brain is shocked awake at the sudden display of affection, but it’s the exact kind of reassurance my irrational anxiety was asking for; I let myself just  _ exist _ for a minute, in this silly, easy embrace. Until Phil’s pulling back, breaking the bubble, and I frown indignantly at him.  _ You can’t just give me that, then take it away. _

 

“I’ll be back later, I have to meet the contractors at the cabin,” he tugs me back in for a quick hug, then steps away. “It might take a while,” he adds, and his cheek quirks up in a smirk. I would spend time wondering why, as I watch him head out the door, but I’m too caught up in the idea that’s now blossoming in my head.

 

I wait until I’m sure he’s gone, then race up the stairs to the art room - I don’t want to tell Phil, because what if I’m rejected?  _ The disappointment, the judgment, the pity, that would be mortifying. _ So I resolve to keep it secret, just for now. 

 

I bounce around the room, tugging sketches down only to discard them on the floor when I pick out a flaw; I’m suddenly regretting selling all my half-decent art, though I do have a few favorites I keep around. I frown, pulling those more gently from their spots -  _ but I want to make a good impression. _ So they go into my portfolio bag, along with a couple landscapes I’ve declared good enough, and a few of my more intricate drawings of people.  _ Need to show variety. _

 

It’s this thought that drags me into my bedroom, shuffling through the cartoonish doodles I’d done of Phil the night before. On a whim, I toss a few into the bag.  _ Can’t hurt, right? _ I zip the bag shut, going slowly so I can focus on the satisfying sound it makes. My footsteps on the wood floor, then the stairs, are heavy; I pause by the kitchen, then pivot and set my bag on the counter.  _ I shouldn’t go all the way into town on an empty stomach. _

 

Objectively, I can see that I’m stalling. Subjectively, however, my nerves won’t settle enough for me to _ just fucking go already _ . I spoon cereal into my mouth, letting each crunch resonate through my teeth until I’m left with a bowl of sugary milk and a head hyperfocused on accomplishing this  _ one damned task. _ With a determined - and exasperated - breath, I grab my bag and power-walk to the door. I don’t stop, or let myself think for too long, just fling it open and march off across the gravel.

 

My steps slow when the town actually comes into sight - it’s another ten minutes to the Visitor’s Center, and the weight of what I’m doing is starting to bow my shoulders ( _ not that my posture’s so great to begin with _ ). I know that scanning in my art, having a digital portfolio, it’s not  _ all _ that frightening; the implication, however - hell, the  _ reason _ I’m doing it to begin with - is what scares me.  _ Eventually, Phil has to leave. I don’t want to be here alone. I don’t want to be here without him. I don’t want to  _ be  _ without him. _ It sends a shiver up my spine, though the day is unusually warm.

 

Several minutes later, I’m turning the corner down the block from the Center. Jim’s taxi is just pulling away, probably taking some tourist to the inn or up to whatever scenic hiking spot they saw in a brochure - I’m glad the place seems otherwise quiet.

 

_ Oh, fuck, I have to actually  _ interact _ with people. _ My footsteps falter - I’ve been so focused on my actual task that I completely forgot the part where I have to deal with the residents who either hate me, avoid me, or pity me.  _ Talking with Phil is so easy, I doubt the same goes for everyone else. _

 

In spite of my stupid social anxiety, I push into the shop, both relieved and a little nervous that I’m the only person here. My eyes skate across the tacky souvenirs, loud and bright for what I know to be a mostly-dull island, then settle on the woman shuffling some things around at the desk. It’s Penelope, Penny if she likes you, a pretty woman but not always the brightest.  _ Okay, just pretend you’re talking to Phil. Hell, pretend you  _ are _ Phil _ . I take a steadying breath and approach the counter.

 

“Oh!” Her hand drifts to her chest as if I’d scared her, and I squeeze my fist tighter around the handle of my portfolio bag. “Hello dear! How can I help you?” Her positive demeanor is off-putting, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine or forced - I’ve never actually spoken  _ to _ her before.  _ What would Phil do? _

 

“Hi!” I chirp back, the tone sounding foreign with my voice behind it. “Uh, I...could I use your scanners? I have these, uhm,” I pause, fumbling with the zipper and pulling out a sketch at random - a landscape - and holding it out between us. “I just need to, uh, get them onto my computer,” I add, in a significantly shakier voice. She stares at me for a moment, and I wonder if she’s about to say no.  _ ‘Sorry, you’re not sociable enough, we don’t help strange, awkward people like you.’ _ I’m about to apologize, turn tail and run, and I can feel my cheeks heating with the beginning of a blush.  _ I’m such an embarrassment, jesus christ. _

 

“Sure thing, hon,” I almost jump at the words, but she’s lifting the divider and gesturing toward a small office with a printer/scanner combo connected to a sleek-looking computer. “Go ahead and use this one, it’s much faster.” I think I mumble a thank you, glancing up from the setup to see a small smile on her face. Then she’s bustling back over to the front counter, greeting a couple that’s just come in.

 

_ That wasn’t so bad, now, was it? _ I grimace at the thought, one hand wiggling the mouse to get the screen up while the other sets my sketch down on the first surface it finds - a chair set off to the side, almost hidden behind a large potted fern.  _ Real? _ Distracted, I brush the leaves with my fingers as they return from the chair to their newly appointed task of opening my portfolio bag.  _ Waxy, but real _ .

 

The first scan takes about four minutes, because I have to mess with the resolution settings on the scanner and I’ve got absolutely  _ no fucking clue _ what I’m doing. But I’m  _ sure _ I can figure it out, so I keep going until I get a scan I’m satisfied with. The rest take about ten more minutes, but Penelope doesn’t come in and say I’m taking too long, so I try not to worry about being a nuisance. 

 

Once everything’s been loaded onto the flash drive I brought, I zip my drawings back up into my bag and step out of the office. Penelope’s chatting away with an older gentleman, and I overhear something about the ‘natural beauty’ of the island. True to form, I do my best to slip out quietly, which is about to work until the damned divider slams down behind me.

 

“Oh! Dear, did you get everything you needed?” I roll the words over a few times, still unused to being addressed so directly.  _ Phil would thank her, be exceptionally polite. _

 

“Yes, I did, uh, thank you  _ so _ much for letting me use the scanner. I  _ really _ appreciate it,” I add the last bit, though it feels saccharine-sweet on my tongue. But she grins at me, then turns her attention back to the gentleman.

 

_ Still not so bad, and you got what you needed. _ When I push out of the shop, the light breeze brushes against my warm cheeks and it’s oddly comforting. Even though I know my task for the day is done, all requisite social interaction successful, I’m still mulling over the conversations in my head by the time I return to the house.

 

“Phil?” I check as I open the door, exhaling after a beat of silence.  _ Not home. Or at least not down here. _ I take the stairs two at a time, slipping into my art room and letting the door click shut behind me. Each sketch is returned to its original place, including the dozen or so I’d left littered on the floor - only  _ certain _ ones actually belong there. 

 

I take soft steps down the hall to my bedroom, pausing to listen for any noise that might indicate Phil’s returned. I’m met with an eerie, uncomfortable quiet -  _ funny, I used to prefer this to the noise of having other people around. _ Once in my room, I tuck the cartoon drawings back into the desk drawer, then open up my laptop.

 

_ It’s only been -  _ I check the time in the corner of the screen -  _ a couple hours, I doubt I have any new emails. _ I frown when, sure enough, I don’t. Impatience has me clicking the refresh button a few times, but nothing new pops up, and I let out an annoyed breath. Hoping for a distraction, I pull up Tumblr - I never post, just hide in the background and observe.  _ Much like my real life. _ It’s only when I lift a hand to my chin, intent on leaning on the desk, that I recall exactly what I came in here for.

 

I quickly uncap the flash drive, still warm from being clenched in my fist, then plug it in - the art looks no different from how it did at the Visitor’s Center, but having it all splayed out in an array of little thumbnails somehow  _ changes _ everything.  _ It all looks...gray. _ I  _ know _ I only draw in black and white, shades of charcoal and pencil - that’s all I’ve  _ ever _ drawn with - but now I feel like there should be  _ more _ .

 

There should be  _ colors. _

 

I stand abruptly, legs hitting the chair and shoving it back, then I’m out and into the hall. The art room is my goal, but I take a detour to dig around in the coat closet first - stuffed behind the immense pile of blankets is a dusty set of colored pencils that my grandma had given to me when I first expressed an interest in drawing; it’s a really lovely set, but I’d never even opened it - colors were never my thing.

 

_ But now... _ I’m honestly giddy at the idea. I don’t know much about colors, how they work together and how I want to use them, but I lay out a blank page once I’m in the art room.  _ I should start basic, something I know by heart. _

 

Which, naturally, is how I end up with a technicolor Phil staring up at me from the paper - his eyes, true to form, are every shade of green and blue I could find, and his skin is an explosion of pink and yellow and orange. Shadows peek out in deep blue and purple, matching dark locks of hair that I could almost call black if I didn’t know the exact colors I’d used to make them.

 

It’s a strange sensation, the one I got from drawing this image -  _ maybe because you had fun for once. _ I’m usually so consumed with the need to get something down on paper that the whole process feels more like a detox than something I truly enjoy, but this wasn’t compulsive: each line was lazy and unhurried, but not in a fastidious way - for once, I wasn’t aiming for perfection, for capturing the precise image in my head. I just  _ drew _ .

 

A voice from downstairs - I assume - calls my name, and I scoot the box of pencils into a corner before rushing to my bedroom to stow the drawing in my desk drawer. A few moments later, I’m heading toward the staircase - Phil’s stood at the bottom, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as he looks up at me.

 

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were back,” true, I’d been very distracted, “what’s up?” He’s so quiet, just  _ watching  _ me, that I have to do a mental once-over; a strange tug in my cheeks draws my attention.  _ Oh, I’m grinning like an idiot, that’s why. _ But I don’t really feel like schooling my face into a frown, so I just...keep smiling.

 

I float through the next several minutes, keeping an eye on the boiling water Phil’s asked me to watch, but my thoughts keep drifting to the colors.  _ The sunset, I could do that.  _ I roll the idea over in my head, mentally experimenting with different hues until a soft rumbling at the stove draws me out and into the real world. I lower the heat, snatching my hand back just as a bit of water bubbles over the rim of the pot before it settles down. 

 

“Hey, Phil, it’s boiling, do you want me to put the pasta in?” I call out, though I’m already reaching for the package; the thumps of rushed footsteps behind me make me pause as Phil slides into the kitchen.

 

“Oh, no, that’s fine, I’m back now!” I squint at the blush on his cheeks -  _ it could just be from running down the stairs _ \- as he moves past me, reaching for the pasta.  _ Reds and pinks,  _ I think, more focused on the way he looks than the reason he looks it.  _ They would stand out so well against ice blue skin. _

 

I consider this as I head toward the stairs, offering a distracted comment over my shoulder and leaving him to his cooking - I’m already beginning the drawing in my head.  _ His lips would match his cheeks, the same warm blush tones. _

 

“Uhh...actually!” I pause with my hand on the railing. “Do you want some wine? This shouldn’t take long to make, then we can eat.” By the time I turn, he’s already digging around the cupboard for some glasses.

 

“Oh, you’re making it for me as well?” I tilt my head, surprised by the gesture. _ How does he manage to be so thoughtful all the time?  _ He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush as I take it.

 

“Of course! You made me dinner the first night I was here, I’m just returning the favor,” I stare down at the wine, honestly unsure how to react.  _ That was just an apology dinner, you didn’t have to do this. _ I think they’re good words, that perhaps I’ll say them, but he’s still talking so I lean against the counter and take a slow sip. “Besides, I ruined it the first time by basically burning my hand off,” I raise an eyebrow -  _ fair point _ . “Second date has to be better,” he adds, and inhale half the wine.

 

“It wasn’t a  _ date _ ,” I want to shout it, but my voice comes out crackly and broken. I can feel the heat of my cheeks as I try desperately to get my cough under control.  _ Did  _ he _ think it was a date? I mean, we barely knew each other. Hell, we  _ still _ barely know each other! _ I blink back the watering in my eyes, waiting for Phil to say something. 

 

“Well, even better, then  _ this _ is our first date!” Before I can fully process the words - aside from ‘first date’ - he’s spun around and stirring the pasta on the stove.  _ Date? Are we dating now? Is that, I mean, are we like...official? How the fuck does all this work? _ I realize, belatedly, that my mouth is hung wide open and I’m just staring at the back of Phil’s head.

 

By the time he’s finished, now wielding two plates of pasta in cream sauce, I’ve managed to regain some composure. I’ve also managed to down half my glass of wine. We sit and eat in silence, one I’m shocked to find Phil seems content with while I’m chewing at my lip between bites.  _ Why am I so shit at this? _ I don’t know how to make small talk, and Phil’s not at all forthcoming - hell, he almost seems  _ distracted _ as he chews. 

 

_ The pasta’s good, mate, but it isn’t  _ that _ good. _ I spend the rest of the meal stealing glances at him from behind my fork, lifting it a little higher than necessary so my looks seem casual, unintentional. Because my mind is whirring with a thousand things I don’t have the courage to say, I wait until he’s done eating - we both are, I’ve been trying to time it so we finish at the same time. The last thing this awkward silence needs is one of us just sitting and waiting for the other.

 

“Let me, uh, wash up?” I stand, plate in hand and reaching for his. “Since, y’know, you did that last time,” I shrug, fixing my eyes on the table.  _ Please don’t insist on helping.  _ But he doesn’t, nodding and smiling as I take the dish and head toward the sink. It’s a quick process, and I’m done in maybe two minutes, but there’s some weighty tension in the air around us and it makes the time feel far longer.  _ What on earth is going on? _

 

“Hey,” I startle when Phil’s hip bumps mine, jarring me from my thoughts. “Can I show you something?”  _ Okay, something’s  _ definitely  _ up.  _ I arch a brow but give him a cautious nod, shutting off the faucet and reaching for the towel - he takes my hand before I get there, though, and pulls me along behind him and up the stairs. We turn the corner toward my room, and I blanch.

 

_ Shit. What if he found all the stuff in my desk drawer? Or saw the emails back and forth with Michael Kaeplin?  _ I realize I’m dragging my feet, but nerves have my muscles seizing up and my brain locking down.  _ Oh god. What if he thinks I’m crazy for trying to follow him once he leaves the island? Or that all those drawings of him, so many more than he saw before, mean I’m some kind of obsessive stalker? _ My vision goes fuzzy around the edges just  _ imagining _ all the horrendously embarrassing situations that await me at the end of the hall.

 

“The art room!” Phil’s paused ahead of me, frowning sympathetically, and I exhale.  _ Nothing in there he hasn’t seen before.  _ Then  _ I’m _ frowning, because  _ didn’t I tell you not to go in there? _ I think back, wondering if I ever actually said it out loud.  _ Fine, didn’t I somehow make it obvious that you being in there made me uncomfortable? _

 

“Were you in there  _ again _ ?” I hope he gets that I’m annoyed, this time.  _ You can’t just...see everything, whenever.  _ I’m stuck between indignant and agitated, but he holds up a hand. 

 

“Well...yes, but I promise I didn’t break anything! Just...wait here for like five seconds? When I knock, you can come in, okay?” I search his face for any hint of  _ anything _ , but he looks just as nervous as I feel, and - if I’m being honest - I don’t really know  _ how _ to say no to him. So I nod, once, though I’m still squinting at him.  _ Whatever this is, it had better be good. _ It’s easier to focus on irritation instead of the knot twisting in my stomach.

 

The door closes behind him, and I exhale. Then count. By the time I’ve reached two-hundred and eighty five, there’s a sharp knock at the door. I inch it open warily, still unsure about this entire situation - I glance at Phil only for a moment, who looks very much like he’s holding his breath, then scan the walls that I can see behind him.  _ Nothing looks...oh. _

 

On the opposite wall from the window, framed by pale white paper, is the sunset - not just the sunset, though, the view from  _ the cave _ . I’d know it anywhere.  _ How did he… _ I can’t do much else aside from stare, and I think my mouth drops open. I might’ve said something, because Phil’s rambling now, but all I can focus on is the picture of the sunset.  _ It almost looks real, but surely it’s just- _ I suck in a breath when I notice the waves crashing against the rocks, actually  _ moving _ , because  _ holy fucking hell this is real. _ The sun is sinking, that moment before it disappears below the horizon, and I’m utterly captivated. The fucking  _ colors _ , it’s the real thing - a projection, sure, but  _ real _ \- right here in my art room.

 

Phil’s voice breaks a little, turning sad and soft behind me, and my ears catch the tail end of an apology. I spin, slowly, only managing to tear my eyes from the wall because I’ve told them where they’re going -  _ to Phil. _ Even now ( _ especially _ now), he outshines the sun. 

 

I want to say something, to tell him how amazing this is, but there  _ aren’t words. _ So I take fast steps across the floor and slam into him, crush his lips to mine and hope he understands - it’s sloppy and he’s frozen against me, and somewhere in the back of my mind is a thought telling me I maybe made a mistake, but I ignore it.  _ I don’t have words, so take this instead. _ I imagine handing him my heart, because _ fuck it all _ if he doesn’t have it already.

 

I have the common sense to be relieved when his hands find the small of my back and pull me against him, and the kiss turns from something frantic and needy into something... _ it’s magenta and cerulean and indigo and marigold and amber and crimson and lavender and every fucking color out there.  _ If I could draw it, that’s what I would use. 

 

I’m lost in it, drowning at sea, and I can’t be bothered to call for help. I do, however, have to breathe at  _ some _ point - when I pull away, when my brain is no longer focused solely on my lips, on  _ his _ lips, some words push their way forward and jump from my tongue.

 

“Nobody has  _ ever _ done anything like this for me,  _ thank you _ ,” it’s not enough, so I punctuate it with another kiss.  _ How the hell did I not know how amazing this was? Why haven’t we been doing this the entire time? _ I force myself to pull away, floating on whatever cloud this is.  _ Thank you, for the colors. _

 

\-------------------------------------

 

It’s not til early March that I get the email, which is brief and to the point and informs me that I’ll also be receiving an official letter via regular mail by the end of the week.  _ Not that I really care,  _ I grin at my laptop,  _ because now I know for sure. _ I’ve been told time and time again over the past couple weeks that I would have a place, but it didn’t feel  _ real _ until just now. 

 

Phil’s been up early, lately - first, it was preparing the cabin for interested buyers, then standing in for his parents at some contract meetings. I didn’t miss the look on his face when he’d come back after a buyer dropped out, grinning and exceptionally cheery.  _ He doesn’t want to leave. _ That still hits me every time I think it, every time he  _ says _ it.

 

He hasn’t said it in a week, because that would make it real. 

 

A couple had agreed to pay full asking price, the contract had been signed by both parties, and Phil’s flight home is booked for the day after tomorrow. He’s been putting on a fake smile for several days, and I’m not sure if it’s more for him or me - I overheard his last phone interview for a job he’s been trying to get, the very end, when they asked him to come back to Manchester for a final in-person meeting. We’d celebrated, wine and a fancy meal, but his excitement never really reached his eyes.  _ The spark, it wasn’t there. _ I had tried to be excited for us both, but it felt forced and unnatural.  _ But now I know. _

 

I lean back in my chair, staring again at the email - I’ll be starting at Manchester University in the summer, catching up on some courses that most people in my program have already taken and joining the rest of the art majors in the fall of their second year. The dean had been impressed with my work, even more so when I sent over scans of my color sketches, and insisted I start as soon as they could get the paperwork through.

 

I stand slowly, and it feels like I’m moving through water that’s intent on dragging me back down - it’s still surreal, not concrete because I’m the only one who knows. It’s been simultaneously impossible and very easy to keep this all from Phil.

 

Simple, I reflect as I swap my sweatpants for my favorite ripped black jeans, because I’ve spent the majority of my life staying quiet, not discussing anything with anyone  _ ever _ . It’s a pattern I understand, a persona I can fall into. 

 

Impossible, though, because it’s  _ Phil. _ I’ve let things slip, of course, after a sleepy kiss or a bout of laughter that only _ he  _ can pull from me - I feel so at home with him, and I want to share everything. So we’ve talked, in vague terms and ‘someday’s, about my thoughts on returning to school - nothing solid, never a discussion of where or when, no deadlines or timetables, I keep those all inside my head.

 

_ Until now _ . I had to be sure, first, absolutely  _ certain _ . In the bathroom, I run a hand through my hair - it’s always a mess, but Phil said it’s  _ adorable _ (to which I replied that I am  _ not _ adorable, but he kissed the words from my mouth, so I shut up). I swear, looking in the mirror, I might actually be vibrating with excitement - I’ve always found that a stupid term, but I think I can actually  _ see _ where the edges of my outline are blurring. 

 

I take a deep breath, glancing out the window as I grab my packed back and head for the hall -  _ good, a clear sky _ . It’s rare, of course, but everything about tonight has to be  _ perfect. _

 

I find Phil in the lounge, as usual, clacking away at his keyboard. Dark fringe falls across his glasses, but he doesn’t seem to notice until he hears my footsteps on the stairs; he pushes his hair aside, giving me a tight smile - truly, it’s been  _ agony _ watching this false facade for the past week, but  _ god _ will it be worth it. 

 

“I’m headed out to the beach, do you want to join me?” After maybe the first twelve times I dragged him along on every trip, he seemed to realize something I didn’t - I’d get frustrated quickly with him there, nothing turning out how I’d hoped, so we agreed he wouldn’t come with as often (“It’s alright to have a break from me, even if you don’t see that you need it,” he had smiled for real, then shoved me out the back door on my own. It had been a good drawing day).

 

“Sure,” I almost catch a glimpse of a real smile before he closes his laptop and stands. My eyes catch on the edge of his shirt, particularly the strip of skin it reveals as he stretches. I frown when it disappears, which at least earns me a soft chuckle. “Do you want to bring the candles or a lantern this time?” I’ve been obsessed with the night sky lately, and how to capture it in color despite the immediate assumption that it’s pitch black - this requires some kind of lighting to draw by, and I like to alternate between candles and a proper light source to see how it affects the outcome.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve packed everything already,” I tug his hand, since he still hasn’t moved, and revel in the soft warmth as I shoulder the bag I left at the base of the stairs. If he notices that it’s lumpier, differently shaped, he doesn’t say. To be fair, he’s been distracted, and he’s never been exceptionally observant.  _ Which makes this even easier. _

 

It’s quite dark out, though, once we’re out of range of the LED lights illuminating the stairs down to the beach (added after the night I tripped and nearly sent myself off the side of the cliff), and I dig around in the bag for a torch. With both my hands occupied, Phil wraps an arm around my waist, and I drift closer to him. 

 

The beam ahead of us feels out of place, like it doesn’t fit in this perfect evening, so I stop us sooner than I normally would - the location itself doesn’t matter, honestly, as long as we can see the sky.  _ I want the stars to look down and remember every detail, forever. _ It’s sappy.  _ I’m a sappy piece of shit when it comes to Phil, I won’t deny it. _

 

So I stop abruptly, handing off the torch so I can pull a blanket from my bag - to Phil, this probably looks normal, nothing unusual; I can’t keep the grin off my face as I reach back into the bag and pull out some chocolates, absurdly romantic and - as I’m sure Phil’s just noticing - entirely unnecessary for drawing.

 

“Dan, what…” he trails off, the beam of the torch swinging as he steps closer, lowers himself to the blanket now spread carefully out on the sand. I’ve already sat down, opening the less-than-aesthetic tupperware container and setting the sweets between us. I’d debated bringing roses, but I couldn’t think of a convenient way to hide them so they wouldn’t get crushed.  _ Chocolates and a candle will have to do. _

 

I pull that out next, then fish around for the matches. Once lit, I set it on the beach behind us because one of us is likely to knock it over and catch the blanket on fire if I don’t. Thoroughly focused on setting everything up until this point, I glance back at Phil.

 

He’s just staring, like I’ve gone and hung the moon in the sky.

 

“I haven’t, you know,” I tease, as if he can read my mind. He shakes his head, a soft smile on his face - he’s used to this, my train-of-thought comments that don’t make sense to anyone but me. He does it too, and there’s this strange level of understanding even when we  _ don’t _ understand.

 

“What is all this?” His voice is reverent, eyes flitting from the blanket to the chocolates, the candle, the sky. They land on me.

 

“I just...oh!” I fish back in the bag.  _ The wine, I’ve completely forgotten the wine. _ Phil looks - if possible - even more surprised when I pull the small bottle from the bag along with two plastic cups. I refuse to continue until we’ve each taken a sip, letting the fruity warmth calm my nerves.

 

“Okay,” I start, taking a deep breath.  _ I’ve practiced this, I know exactly what I want to say and how I want to say it. _ “So...you’re leaving.” Phil’s expression sours, his eyes drift to the sand.  _ Great start, excellent. _ “No! I mean, you  _ are _ , but that’s not why I dragged you out here,” his frown softens at my words, turning inquisitive, so I push ahead.

 

“I don’t...I don’t know how you feel-” a sharp look, and I amend. “I mean, of course I do, I know you love me, and you know I love you, but...sometimes I worry that you might think I’m a little...over the top,” I breathe the last part out while staring at the swirl adorning one of the chocolates, afraid to meet his gaze. 

 

“You are,” I inhale sharply,  _ this not the direction I saw this evening going _ . “But I love it. And I love  _ you, _ ” I lift my eyes, marveling at the way silvery moonlight meets orangey-gold candlelight on his face; he’s smiling, and the crinkles around his eyes spur me on.  _ It’s okay, he’s going to be excited. _

 

“Okay,” I take a shaky breath, exhale, then try to pick up where I left off. “So I can be a bit much sometimes, but I  _ love _ you and I really hope you’re as excited as I am about this…” I trail off, taking a sip of my wine to steady me. It’s a very large sip. “For the past few months,” I say (“ _ Really, since I met you, _ ” I don’t say), “I’ve been talking with some admissions people at a school, and they want me to study there, study art,” I watch Phil’s face for any sign of  _ anything _ , but his expression is so still that I know he must be hiding his thoughts.

 

“That’s...amazing,” his voice is tight, but I know there’s a thread of genuine pride in there. Hell, there are some days I  _ live _ to hear that - I’d know it anywhere.

 

“That’s, uh, not all,” I add, and he blinks at me. “It’s Manchester U, and I’m starting in two months,” I hold my breath, eyes flicking between his for any reaction.  _ Fuck.  _ He’s just staring, not even blinking now.  _ Please please don’t be upset,  _ I plead in my head, hoping he can see it written on my face. 

 

Everything about the scene is on the precipice of turning sour: the warm ocean breeze edges toward a hot, sticky, moist air that threatens to clog my throat, the pale starlight a moment from winking out of existence, the soft silvery light of the moon and gold of the candle shifting to something cold and metallic and unfeeling. There is a very long moment where I’m not sure I’ll be able to breathe, see,  _ feel _ ever again.

 

Then there’s a warm body on top of me, lips on mine and laughter echoing in my ears between enthusiastic kisses. I think my wine’s fallen from my hand, spilled and seeping into the sand, but I’m not sure and frankly I don’t care.

 

“Are you,” Phil breaks for a kiss, “completely serious,” another, “right now?” The last one is longer, and I feel his hands drag against my sides, grasping at my waist in an attempt to pull me closer. All my bottled up excitement comes gushing out in the form of giggles and frantic nods and hastily returned kisses, and then it’s all lost for a while as everything turns lazy and unhurried.

 

Phil’s been nothing but rushed in the past few weeks, I assume trying to get every last possible touch, kiss, moment before he left and we wouldn’t see each other for god-knows-how-long; but now, his movements are slow, gentle, and I can feel him smiling against my lips. When we break apart, I honestly feel tears prick behind my eyes because  _ fuck _ that’s the spark, the one I was missing, the one he kept in hiding or just plain forgot about.  _ I brought it back _ .

 

“So, what, in May?” He’s talking again, just laying on top of me, but I don’t mind - the world has turned friendly again, the breeze caressing my jaw until Phil’s hand covers it, ruffling his hair until I smooth it back into place. The lighting plays on his cheekbones in a way that makes him glow, and I wonder if I have the colors at home to capture it. I vow to buy them, if I don’t. Stars frame his face, though I barely notice them because  _ fuck _ if his eyes aren’t sparkling twice as beautifully.

 

“May,” I nod, remembering his question. “Unless, of course, you know of a place I can come and stay sooner?”

 

I laugh when he beams at me.  _ Who needs sunlight when I have Phil? _


	16. Pearlescent (one year later)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for the lovely jen ([@laddyplester](https://laddyplester.tumblr.com/)), have a wonderful birthday b! i hope you enjoy

I exhale a loud sigh - it’s _childishly_ petty, sure, but I can’t be bothered to care.

Phil’s sat in the lounge with some show or other turned on, though, and I apparently didn’t express my annoyance loudly enough because he doesn’t react. So I exaggerate it a little more, until I’m sure my sigh can be heard over the sound of the TV.

“Dan?” The show pauses, silence following Phil’s voice. I frown down at the page under my fingertips; the drawing’s _good,_ but not what I need.

“Nothing,” I lie. Which is exactly how Phil knows, I think, and he’s soon stood behind me, hands resting on my shoulders. He sets his chin on my head and it digs in, reassuring in spite of my headache. _Comfortable_ , even, because it means he’s here. He understands. Or he’s trying.

“It looks incredible, Dan.” He says it every time I complain - or rather _don’t_ complain - about some project or other I’m meant to be doing for class. This one’s a sort of free assignment, at least, but for the life of me I can’t get it right. And I’ve been trying for _three fucking weeks_.

“It’s meant to express _true happiness_.” I clarify, even though Phil knows. Because I told him. Three weeks ago. And pretty much every day since, when I pulled out my damn sketchpad or set up an easel or pulled out a pen to doodle a thumbnail on the corner of a takeaway napkin.

Phil never failed to encourage, not once, and it’s been...well, it’s been sweet, but I still can’t get it _right._

And not for the first time, I wonder if maybe I just _can’t_. If maybe there are insurmountable limits to what I’m capable of, and I’ve finally hit them. I’ve peaked, and my art will always be _good_ but not what I want. Aesthetically pleasing in the kind of way I can make - and _have_ made - a few bucks on, perhaps, but there’s a difference between creating something that pleases the arbitrary audience and something that _means_ something to me.

For this project, for _happiness_ , I’d started with the cave - a thing I’ve not seen in person in nearly a year, in spite of my grandma’s insistence I visit her at least once a semester, because it’s always storming or rainy or some other inconvenience has stood in the way. Except the cave hadn’t felt right, not really.

So, after much insistence from him that I should try a new subject, I’d decided to draw Phil - he’d dutifully posed in spite of his slight embarrassment, made comments using terms he’s heard but really doesn’t fully understand about techniques and shading and angles, and asked if any of the drawings had The Spark.

He says it like that, too, when he’s talking about that spark I’d described to him - he can’t _see_ it, he’s admitted, but I tried to explain it and he’s tried to understand and it means a lot.

But even still, it’d been...wrong. Not wrong in a _bad_ way, but I’ve failed a thousand times now to capture the _happiness_ I see when I look at Phil - I know it’s _there_ , but every drawing turns into a mixture of something beautiful and light and something bitter or melancholy or darker. And it’s never his fault, _he’s_ always bright and sunny and everything I could ask for, but I can somehow never really get that on paper without something less positive dripping into it - the apprehension I’d felt when I met him carved into creases between his brows, my occasional sleepless nights reflected in dark circles under his eyes. And the few times I’ve managed to keep some layer of unnecessary _gloom_ out of it, it ends up lacking depth, looking and feeling tacky, plasticky.

Phil doesn’t quite get it, but it’s _there_. It’s like...I can’t get the real meaningfulness without something more harrowing, some layer that takes away the fake-ness but makes the whole thing a shade too pensive or too intense. 

It took a while, but I think I’ve figured it out - I just don’t _feel_ that happiness without other layers, without some background mental commentary that drags things down. I can’t draw the uninhibited happiness Phil exudes, the kind I’m meant to be drawing - or maybe that I _want_ to be drawing - because I’ve never actually felt it.

“‘ _Incredible’_? No, Phil, it’s really not,” I argue, though I know the reaction I’ll get and it never makes things better. I’ll probably scrap this one and start again, draw the same unrealistically false-looking grin that exists in reality but can’t possibly be captured on a page. Or, I guess, it just can’t be captured _by me._

“Dan?” There’s a sudden warmth wrapped entirely around my shoulders, _Phil’s_ warmth. His incredible, uninhibited warmth. Everything about him is genuine, true. Bright and real and most _definitely_ uninhibited, untarnished by the layers of melancholy I can’t keep out of my drawings. I even fucking tried with _color_ this time, but even the lightest blues look too dark and pull the yellows and bright oranges down with them, into something more fitting for a drawing of me. 

It’s not til the third teardrop splashes on the corner of the page that I realize I’ve started crying - because of _course_ I have.

“I can’t,” I shrug, though Phil doesn’t let go. He never does if I have a bad day, if I’m not feeling good or confident or whatever it is I happen to be feeling or not feeling, if it’s a day where I need him.

“You can’t?” He mumbles into my ear, low and soft and perfectly comforting. I’ve long since stopped saying I don’t deserve him, not out loud, but it’s days like today I really feel it, deep down in my bones. I don’t deserve the light he brings, the patience and caring and the _effort_. He tries so fucking hard to understand, even when he doesn’t.

In place of a proper response, I shake my head and slide the paper aside. Phil won’t let me throw it out, I know, but it’s getting really painful to see the growing piles of failure in every corner. I can’t even work at the desk in my room anymore, now stacked high with imperfect pages; I’ve relegated myself to the breakfast bar, where only a few discarded drawings sit in the corner. I flip the page over on top of the pile, hiding the latest in my line of not-right creations.

I recall one of the first classes I’d taken, early on in the summer last year, the professor reminding us over and over and over that imperfection is the first step on the path to perfection, but it just sounds like a false platitude now that I’m not the recipient of compliment after compliment on my excellent technique or realistic depictions. Sure, I can _draw_ , but I’m starting to feel like a proper failure at _capturing_.

Because it’s _there_ , I know it is. I see that happiness when I look at Phil, but I can’t _feel_ it. I can’t put it down on a page and make someone else see it. I can’t feel it when I look at the drawing afterward. Phil says he can, but I know he’s just saying what he thinks I need to hear. I’ve asked him to stop.

“Maybe take a break for a bit, love?” Phil’s suggestion feels almost like an assault at this point, he’s said it so many times. It’s sweet, and I know it’s because he cares, but the project’s due in a few days and I’ve got _nothing_. 

“I don’t have time.” I argue, though my voice comes out hoarse and unconvincing. I’m just _sick of it_ , sick of pretending to be something I’m not, pretending I’m capable of something that’s clearly just an impossible task for me. Pretending I’m capable of feeling that happiness, of capturing it and putting it down on a page. 

“Maybe…” Phil trails off, hesitant and clearly cautious. I dip my head into the crook of his arm and hum, just enough to hint at my curiosity. “Maybe just turn in the best of what you’ve drawn so far and be done?” He says the words into my hair, as if he can use it as a barrier to prevent whatever backlash he’s clearly expecting, and his arms shift around me anxiously. “If you want?” His trademark ‘softening the blow’ technique, when he says something he already knows I won’t like hearing.

I _almost_ fight - it’s in me, I can feel it, that desire to argue and lash out, but it isn’t his fault. How could it ever be his fault that _I’m_ incapable of capturing something? That _my_ skills have turned out subpar, that _I’m_ the failure? So I blow out a soft breath, one far less exasperated than the one that’d drawn him over from the sofa.

“Okay.” If he’s surprised at my answer, he doesn’t show it, but I can’t exactly see his face, so I’ve no real idea.

Besides, I’ve resigned myself to giving up, and the low relief and overarching sense of failure, of incompetence, swell up and roll over me, replacing whatever thoughts and emotions I’d been feeling toward Phil in that moment.

\--------------

“Did you turn it in?” Phil’s stood frowning at the calendar on the far wall, one of the few things he’d insisted I get made to sell _properly_ , featuring a selection of seasonally-appropriate nature drawings I’ve done over the past few months. People ate that shit up, apparently, as I’d sold out in a matter of a few weeks.

“Turn- _shit_ ,” I grumble, pushing back from the chair so quickly it tips and nearly clatters to the ground behind me - I manage to catch it at the last second, then I’m off to my room and rifling through the sketches scattered across my desk with frantic fingers.

I probably shouldn’t have put off the choosing of my subpar ‘true happiness’ drawing until the _literal_ last minute.

“Do you need help?” Phil follows me into my room, and I can feel his presence at my shoulder even though he’s not touching me. I think it helps, though my mind’s running at a mile a minute and I can hardly think straight; as I page through each sketch, staring critically at the lines that stare right back at me, I’m thrown into the same melancholic funk I’d been in a few days ago, because none of them are _good enough_. 

But, I suppose if I’m sifting through old sketches anyway, I can go further back, right? _Not like the professor will know_. 

So I slide open the desk drawer, the only one not stuffed to the brim with various utensils and miscellaneous cables. It’s funny, now that I’m tugging the pages out, but I don’t think I’ve even looked in most of these drawers since I requested my grandma ship the worn old desk out to the new flat in Manchester. 

“I haven’t seen these,” Phil presses closer to my side, peeking down at the sketches. _I guess I haven’t taken these out, then._ I go slow, letting him appraise each page as I sift through them - most are too old, really, and I think my style has evolved far too much to pass them off as recent, but my hands pause on a single page.

“Forgot I did that,” I note, my cheeks flushing with warmth at the unusual and almost childish styling of the cartoon doodle; Phil’s hand tugs the drawing from mine. 

“You did this?” His tone comes out soft, and I’m suddenly nervous - it’s a silly kind of nervous, I know, because he’s never been anything but honest and kind about everything I’ve ever done. But he’s never seen this sketch, and it feels a little childish and maybe a little _sad_ \- these simplistic outlines are a far cry from my proper drawings.

“I mean, yeah,” I mumble, “like ages ago, though. They’re pretty rubbish, just, like, scribbles really.” I hate the feeling in my stomach, the one I’d kept at bay for so long, the one that’d reemerged with the advent of this project, that one that feels a hell of a lot like failure. Disappointment. _Insignificance_.

“Remember when I got stuck outside last week?” Phil says, then, and it throws me for a complete loop; I huff out a breath of laughter at the unexpected turn in conversation. And at the comical image of Phil stood outside the door in his emoji pajamas, peeking through the frosted glass window. 

“Yeah, of course, but I don’t-”

Phil holds up the drawing toward me, as if I’ve not actually seen it properly myself - as if I didn’t _draw_ it myself - and grins. 

“Do that, but like this!” He’s nearly shouting, that excited, high voice he gets when he’s seen an animal and he nudges into my arm and says my name to get my attention before pointing it out. 

“Do- what, for my _project_?” I can feel my face scrunching up, but he can’t be serious, can he? _How pathetic and unsophisticated would that look? I’m meant to be_ evolving _my skills, not falling back to some childish doodling and cartoon panels._

Phil doesn’t respond aloud, though, just nods and grins that bright, impossible grin and grabs my hand and drags me back out and into the lounge. Before I can properly process it, he’s shoving down on my shoulders and sticking a pen in my hand and flipping over the page of the half-assed drawing on the coffee table in front of me - I’ve long since filled the breakfast bar with failed sketches as well, and I briefly wonder how long Phil’s going to put up with the mess. 

“I can’t-”

“No, no, shush, just- just do your thing, it’s perfect, trust me.” He’s stood on the other side now, between the table and the TV, and he’s grinning again - I’m honestly not even sure he’d ever stopped.

“Phil, I can’t turn in-”

“ _Shush_ , just do it!” He’s stood and staring and he even gives me an overexaggerated fake frown when I widen my eyes and quirk a brow at him, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about Phil, it’s that he’s a force to be reckoned with when he gets determined like this. Besides, a quick few doodles about Phil getting stuck outside? Shouldn’t take me long, and it’ll be funny at least. Maybe I can hang it on the fridge, a continuous reminder for us both of his hilarious misadventure. Hilarious for _me_ , anyway.

He stands over me and stares while I draw - I hardly mind, it’s not the first time he’s done it and it certainly won’t be the last, and I’ve already decided I’ve no intention of turning _this_ in. It’ll be better to just get it over with to appease him, then I’ll send some other proper drawing in later tonight, just before the deadline.

I fall into my zone quite easily, so I hardly notice when Phil moves closer, when he settles on the sofa behind me and watches over my shoulder. The lines come effortlessly, hardly any real requisite technique involved, and I find myself done before my hand even starts to cramp up. 

“There,” I mumble, peeking over at Phil. “Satisfied?” But he’s just grinning, so I shake my head, roll my eyes, and prepare to leave him to it. He can enjoy the doodles, at least, while I decide on something proper to submit.

“Dan, you- it’s-” he stops mid-attempt-at-speaking, then, and I frown at the unblinking wide blue eyes. _Surely it’s not_ that _bad, is it?_ I mean, not that I’d really been _trying_ , but...it still fucking hurts to do something poorly, no matter how casual the attempt.

I turn back to scan the page with twisted lips and a discerning eye, but I can’t pick out whatever Phil must be seeing - the whole thing looks technically simple but pretty clean, and aside from the slightly lopsided framing of the panels, the drawings themselves do a pretty good job of capturing- _of capturing._

My eyes race over the story again, the comically wide eyes of the cartoon Phil, my own lanky limbs as I climb down the stairs, rubbing my eye with a fist. It’s _good_ , it’s light and funny and...it’s _happy_. It’s not incredible or perfect or whatever I’d been chasing so desperately, but I actually fucking _feel_ it.

“I really _really_ like it.” Phil says, and I can hear the grin in his voice without looking. I sort of don’t want to, not yet, not until the light feeling in my chest dissolves a little - I really don’t feel like crying right now, not even a good kind of crying. I just want this drawing to be what it is, to mean what it means without any extra unnecessary layers. 

Because it doesn’t need them, the depth is _there_ , it’s in the domestic comedy of errors that’d left me literally belly-laughing at the face glaring at me through the window. It’s in the garish design of Phil’s emoji pajamas that’d almost made me let him in just so nobody else would see him. It’s in the frustrated _‘Dan!’_ whisper-shouted through the crack in the door, too early on a Sunday for a proper _yell_. It’s in the taunting and the elicited promises of laundry done for a month and that candle I’d really wanted and actually picking up his socks for once, in the exasperated ‘ _finally!’_ once I’d given in, and the dramatic arm-crossing and foot-tapping that Phil couldn’t even manage for more than two seconds before devolving into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah?” I ask in spite of myself, and my cheeks hurt from the grin that settles there the moment Phil nods into my shoulder, presses a kiss to my cheek. 

I’m not sure why it had to matter so much, but it feels really fucking good to be able to create something that exists in its own right, that doesn’t require hours spent on technique and perfection and meeting impossible standards but still manages to _mean_ something.

“You should do that more.” Phil’s hand slides up and down my arm, soothing and comforting, and I tilt my head until it’s leaned against his and consider it - the simplicity, the raw and unmanufactured vibe, it actually feels _good_ in spite of the urge to correct and nitpick and improve tingling under my skin. But it doesn’t feel _necessary_ , not the way it usually does.

“I think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to kat [@imnotinclinedtomaturity](http://imnotinclinedtomaturity.tumblr.com/) for betaing this scene!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/169393495537/ocean-in-a-storm-sea-glass-dan-pov)


End file.
